Introduction

Our story takes place in modern Europe, in a simple new-build house: a plot of land with a garden, the kind that keep springing up on the outskirts of cities in the so-called suburbs, combined with all the hopes of a bright future for the more or less young couple, who then often end up in debt to the bank for their house with a garden.

Paul and Katrin's "garden" is essentially just a three-meter-wide strip of grass around their new house, minus the hedge, but people are modest these days and, above all, they live super "sustainably." The contradiction in their characters is normal: On the one hand, "everything eco-friendly" in keeping with contemporary tastes, but on the other hand, the carport with two big cars was an absolute must – how else would they secure their careers and purchases?

Paul was good at repressing the existence of such contradictions within himself.

Our Paul is married to his Katrin, but still childless. They've put off the latter: career and house first, then the rest. You know how it is. It's probably normal these days. She's not even thirty, no age for a future mother? He's a bit older, and as a man, that's even less of a problem; he could still become a father at 70.

Like all normal people, our two have certainly acquired their own particular neuroses, whether they require treatment or not, that doesn't play a role in our story. Just this much: Paul really likes pussies (really "a lot"!), Katrin likes alpha males. She would never get involved with a loser. She found such men a turn-off, at least unsexy; at worst, it triggered hostility in her toward those who didn't even know what was happening to them. That's how she was known at work, too. She could be a bitch.

Paul is just what she wanted, an alpha male, and therefore quite sexy to her, albeit in moderation (much to Paul's chagrin!). He had never disappointed her with her choice to marry him. Because he was always climbing the career ladder, with every promotion within the company, he took at least two rungs, so to speak.

We'll see if he can continue to satisfy his beloved so successfully in this regard...

As mentioned, whether he needs treatment or not, Paul's extremely abundant carnal desire is relevant to this story. "Your spermatic cords run through your brain," she liked to mock him when he annoyed her again, as she thought, before his time. And she always decided when it was time again... A circumstance that is relevant here.

Of particular note here are his, let's say, "rather specific sexual fantasies," namely: wanting to belong entirely to a woman, voluntarily, but purely sexually as a matter of course (otherwise, he's a typical Aries and doesn't like being bossed around at all; throughout his life, even later, at work, he's always been a "leader," the opposite of a lackey).

She accepted his crude ramblings about her being his sex giant as a quirk to be tolerated. Confident and modern as she was, blessed by her upbringing and nature: a beauty, and clever to boot, she wouldn't let anyone take the butter from her bread and butter; she'd rather take it herself.

She certainly had her standards. She certainly didn't let him get away with anything. For example, it would be unforgivable for her if he were to cheat on her. But the way he was, totally sexually fixated on her alone, she had no doubt that he wanted only her and no one else. She knew him very well. Out of the question. He would always want only her and, although sparingly, consciously and regularly granted him the (in her opinion) rightful dose of sex. Not according to the calendar, but certainly calculating. She kept him constantly hungry in this regard.

When he imagined her as a giant, he went ballistic. Being a thumb in her hands was the ultimate in his idea of ​​good sex. Of course, she should desire him, preferably with animalistic abandon.

In short: He had an obsession known as macrophilia.

This should suffice as an introduction to the nature of the characters involved.

When they had sex, there were no taboos. That's how he liked it. And she did too.

Paul was sexually addicted to his wife, his sex goddess!

Sex only with her. He loved her. And especially the "making love," as the Americans call it.

She loved him too, so: "Everything's fine," as they say? Well, it wasn't that simple. She liked him very much, admired him for his professional successes. He, a senior engineer, on his way to the top of the corporation. That's how she saw him. She could look up to him. And that's why she loved him.

He, however, loved her physical attractiveness and would have loved to have sex with her every day and every night. Unfortunately, she didn't want it that way...

It wasn't "all good" between the two of them, but what married couple could ever say that?

They were compatible, just not when it came to the darned subject of sex. Not quite, but "everything's fine"...

Yes, she did enjoy having sex with him. But, she'd told him often enough: "I don't need it as often as you do" – "... women, after all..." Paul thought.

So far, so normal, the two of them.

What is normal in a so-called heterosexual relationship? This question has been under consideration ever since thinking human couples began to exist. Unfortunately, there's still no answer in sight.

What is "normal" in sex? Even on this question, opinions are divided to this day. Sorry: after "pc," "frau" correctly refers to the noun "Geister" as "Geister*innende" (ghosts), or, as it's actually meant here: "Experten*Innende" (experts).

[difficult to understand, even for Germans, but unfortunately this is officially the German new gender spelling - worse, worse improvement]

These actors are known to be multiplying. Just as the unsolved problems in sexology are miraculously multiplying – literature on the subject is abundant and multiplying in libraries and on the bargain tables of supermarkets (sex guides and the like), with their thousands of theories. And the number is growing daily. And no one (PC: no one) can see through it anymore. Who really knows the answer to the question: What is good and what is evil?

The two of them didn't read such books. And if they did, they only read for their careers, what they had to. And they had their smartphones and the flat screen in the living room with a streaming subscription to pass the time.

"Sex" was actually their only marital problem, and even with that, they were a perfectly normal couple.

They had tried almost everything sexually that is considered "normal" today, almost everything, found some "good" and others "less good." And figured out what each of them enjoyed.

Paul had to adapt to their sexual peculiarities. That was no problem for a modern, educated man like Paul. Everyone knows the dogma of his original guilt for heterosexual loss of desire: "There are no frigid women, there are only clumsy men." So it would always be his fault if things didn't go so well during sex, with her.

That may be true. That Paul was to blame. Let's take "69" as an example: Paul really liked it and always ejaculated. Or rather, he ejaculated at some point. But unfortunately, it was early, too early, as she said: "It won't take long for you, I need a little longer."

By the time she lay on top of him, he was already at 90 percent. But then she started, at zero or even lower... Depending on her mood (worst case for him: agreed to it only for his sake, with desire in the negative percentage range).

That was the crux of the matter. That's why Katrin had found the "69" to be "less good" and, if she did it, did it with rather moderate pleasure, definitely as a reward for Paul, to do something good for him, rather than for her own pleasure.

When she lay down on him again, listlessly, and began to "blow him" ("69"), as they say, he briefly freed his mouth to advise her: "Why don't you just stop, I'm about to come... and then you'll be angry again. I've told you many times. If you keep chewing on my cock like that when I can lick you down here, you shouldn't be surprised if I come right away, I'm sorry." She: "Ummph..." She had stopped, had released his penis from her mouth: "I want to have my fun too..."

Good thing, he wasn't listening to her anymore, her thighs against his ears, he couldn't understand anything of it, acoustically, barely hear anything clearly of what she was trying to tell him from above: "Paul, caught, think about it, you always imagine you're my little man?! I'd chew on you too, again: I don't think you'd like that. You wouldn't have fun. But maybe I'd like that someday? And I'd always do it beforehand, with you, especially because then you'd be really slobbery. Or I'd dip you in the pot. So you'd really slippery down there with me. I like it nice and wet down there. And then I'd push you in, try it a little first, slowly a little further and then until I come, in, out, in, out...

…You bet I'd do that to you. Your stupid fantasy! I think you'd squeal if you had to watch all that. Imagine the size difference! But I wouldn't want to hear your whining. I'd only think about myself. Actually, that wouldn't be so bad for me? Hot idea: I might take a break sometimes, take a sip of Prosecco, but then I'd keep going, I'd use you until I was satisfied. Think about it. Hello, were you even listening to me?"

He hadn't heard everything, just snatches of words, but enough to understand that it was just the same old story: that she was saying he should be glad he'd never get what he so desperately wanted, to be small, and she simply replied, "Yeah, yeah, maybe, it's just a fantasy of mine. But please leave my cock alone if I'm supposed to stay active down here for a while longer." Then she finally came again. A rare event.

After he came, he lost interest in her pussy, always. Finished. Even in 69. He would then effortlessly lift her thighs and twist out from under her. Usually leaving her unsatisfied, unfortunately, as I said. Katrin wasn't light, as fit and rather tall as she was, but he was also an athletic man with muscles and a six-pack. They both drove to yoga class twice a week, did power yoga, or this German Pilates (check out https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joseph_H._Pilates).

That's why she loved it when she could take control in bed. Then she finally came almost every time. That's how it should be, she thought. That's why she liked riding him, but unfortunately, even then, he often came too early. In her opinion, too early. The problem remained unresolved because Paul was too lazy to read her online tips about "training his ejaculation behavior..." and so on. She thought it was "normal these days for men to educate themselves on that." Why did he "let himself go like that" in that situation?

Conclusion: Not that Katrin was sexually unsatisfied in her marriage—but as satisfied with her sex life as Paul was with his, no, she wasn't. And it was his fault. Katrin saw it that way.

They both liked it when he licked her, down there, between her legs. From down there, he admired her beautiful, full breasts, her pelvis, which sometimes happily joined in, rubbing his nose with her curly hair. He felt her smooth, strong thighs against his ears, so full of life and strength. And he loved that smell down there.

She fulfilled his wish to turn on the light in the bedroom beforehand. He was a visual person. When he mumbled between her legs, "...I want to be your little Thumbelinius and wander around you, then you would be my whole world..." – from above came something like, "No, you don't want to. You wouldn't like that."

He loved everything about her; he was infatuated with his beautiful wife.

During sex, he liked to bring his imagination into play, verbally, by constantly presenting her with new, fantastic ideas. Arousing images also came to her... Yes, she liked to play along when he told her his made-up stories, both loudly and quietly. He was a tender man. She also admired his imagination. She sometimes loved hearing him wish he could walk over her beautiful body like that thumb-man, balancing on her lovely legs.

Then again, he whispered his wish to be able to tickle her small, pink, giant nipples as a homunculus, and then finally be stuffed into her pussy in the grand finale until their shared climax. It made him happy when she added, "If you stray too far from my back, I'll nudge you into my crotch as punishment. You can ride the slide there, but the end of the slide would definitely be terrible for you."

Yes, these ideas aroused her too, somehow. But he only spoke to her like that during sex, not at the table and—never this shame—not at family gatherings. It was their secret, and it should remain so; they could trust each other.

Maybe she liked his thoughts, which created sexy images in her head, because they aroused the idea of ​​him, so small and powerless, being sexually at her mercy? So completely helpless? And, literally, in her hands, reduced to an object of desire, a means of her desire?

She would then truly have complete control over their lovemaking, she would literally have the course of events in her hands, no matter how long it took her to reach climax! Certainly with breaks sometimes, regardless of whether he had already "come" or not – she would ultimately come, absolutely surely, always, every time!

Absolutely surely, because "if necessary," she could practically do it herself, making love to him, recklessly...?

Imagining it had excited her, but she also thought to herself: "What naughty thoughts I'm having... Luckily for him, all of this remains just a fantasy! Paul doesn't even know what would happen to him, he has no idea..."

So she repeatedly told him what a nutcase he was in her eyes, because if his dreams came true, they would be nothing but terrible nightmares for him, without a doubt. What's more, they would be horror experiences come true for him day after day, instead of dreamed-up erotic pleasures, that was as clear as day, both of them agreed. But he always replied: "I don't care, it's just a fantasy, I enjoy it..." If it became real, a game that had turned out badly for him, she thought: "You wouldn't have sex in real life, it's over and done with – but I would have sex," she would usually conclude.

She thought he should be glad it would remain just a fantasy. But she admitted that she still enjoyed imagining it.

Then came this "27/XT." Suddenly it was there. At first, it seemed like a bad joke, then panic spread. Finally, people gradually learned to live with it, even today; somehow, life in the states of the "values-based West" had to go on.

The media was full of it, reporting in text and images about what happened to the shrunken people. A cool topic, so to speak. Even the children knew about it, by and large. It remained mysterious nonetheless, especially what happened to the many disappeared...

They said the Chinese had developed it? And apparently distributed it almost exclusively in the Western world, "to destroy the democratic, free world, economically, the evil intent of really, really, really bad guys doing terrible things every day in this evil, evil country," Trump said.

Well, whether Trump was once again exaggerating is a moot point; it's irrelevant here. Just one more thing: It primarily affected men, old white men, and young men too – if so, then only if they were financially powerful and successful men, at least initially, rich men.

Initially, these stupid rich men bought it as an expensive sex drug, taking it voluntarily! Later, that would change, fundamentally. Because it became cheap. And above all, there were the first "accidents" and horror stories. Nobody took it voluntarily anymore. Because that would be stupid, a horror trip with no return ticket. Or would it? - Exceptions prove the rule...

Later, there were these attacks with 27/XT. Out of malice and many other motives.

Today, it's a mass plague and is causing a serious "skilled labor shortage" in the so-called Western world.

There are many rumors. Who knows what's true about them? That it was the Americans themselves? Coming from a Californian laboratory, financed with US taxpayer money, the ringleaders of the well-paid poisoning squad were supposed to be "woke gender studies profs"?

The origin remained unclear; "Chinese suffragettes," said Trump. The WHO said: "Only a state could create something like this and then remain unidentified as the originator."

The motive for the production of 27/XT is therefore quite likely war. Version A of the weapon of war: against the West or version B: against men; version C...XYZ will not be discussed further here.

One more thing: There was also this proven human trafficking, increasingly, unfortunately, the motive: pure money-making. Sad for those affected, a huge business for the criminals.

It probably goes without saying that this malignant gene therapy only works on men. Another indication that it is a biological weapon.

27/XT remodels the organism in such a way that – depending on the version – at the end of the shrinking process, the poor victim will be between 10 and 30 cm short, usually with all organs functioning properly, which is good for the unfortunate ones who, for whatever reason, have been affected. They are not "disabled" after the shrinking, apart from the handicaps caused by their small size. At first glance, the dwarves seem to be doing well, at least organically, purely physically.

But we all know about the misery of these people; they are often driven to madness; the TV reports are legion. Some can handle it, most are put away (please forgive my cynicism) and either have a problem with it or not. "What is one man's owl is another man's nightingale" as the old Low German saying goes.

The deciding factor for the poor fellow's well-being: Who will take the shrunken one? It also depends on the social environment of those affected; the process of stature loss already creates a need for care, increasing until the point of complete helplessness. This is particularly bitter for young men who still wanted to live their lives.

The feminists dismissed the idea: It's not that bad. They pointed to femicides around the world and the millennia-long suffering of women under men's violence. Now, for a few individuals, things would be reversed, as a counterbalance; now only justice would be served to the perpetrators, far too little.

Many women around the world, for example, would have an even lower life expectancy than the shrunken men, accidents aside: The dwarves would stay fit, and even gain a certain level of fitness through this gene treatment, without any exercise at all! Incidentally, it's still unclear why this is so. Certain things are simply irrelevant for research, but the social sciences are now receiving endless research contracts.

Even more advantageous for the dwarves would be their fascinating ability to absorb oxygen through their skin, which they would gain during the shrinking process. The result: suffocation and drowning would be virtually impossible if a certain level of oxygen is available in their environment, whether dissolved or free.

This, in any case, is well understood, and scientists agree on why this is so: Relative to the volume of the organism, the surface area, i.e., the skin, is extremely large for a human being, even if they are so small. Worms are also known to get enough air to breathe for this reason, even without lungs. And the combustion of food works when there is enough oxygen in the blood, regardless of where it comes from. This would be another advantage for men. Worldwide, 347.3 women and girls drown every day because the international community does not provide sufficient funding for girls' swimming lessons...

Next, this wonderful fact should be mentioned: There were no fall injuries among the gene therapy victims, regardless of the height from which they fell, provided they were under a certain maximum height. In any case, no injuries from falls have been reported.

The exact number of girls falling daily was not statistically quantifiable, which was a shame for feminists, but women lack such protection (an old German saying goes: "If a virgin falls, she falls on her back", meaning that fallen wayward girls), which is another patriarchal injustice leading to preventable femicides.

The counter to this was that even dwarves have indeed been killed thousands of times over, by impact, by being thrown (statistically almost 100% female!) against a house wall, for example, which causes severe injuries to the little ones, just as it would be the case for extremely heavy women (for example, thrown against a wall by mechanical force). Therefore, no advantage for men can usually be seen here.

Furthermore, it is worth considering: shrunken men cannot fall to their deaths without outside help, however much they sometimes wish to do so because of their suffering. Many wish for death, as we know.

It's easy to explain why these genetically modified men are allowed to enjoy this fall protection. It doesn't require so-called experts. Rather, even the knowledge of a high school student is sufficient: It's like an ant. It doesn't fall to its death either.

Physically speaking, the braking air resistance during the free fall of small creatures is excessively large, relative to the relatively low weight force involved. The low weight force can therefore, so to speak, not compete with the braking force of the high air resistance. The resulting acceleration therefore remains low, and so does the falling speed.

Shrunken men float to the ground. Although it is subjectively a great shock for them at first: The air rushes past their small ears, and the fall from this subjectively great height is perceived as life-threatening (until they get used to it, then, after a certain amount of training, it can actually be quite pleasurable for the dwarves, for example, to jump from a table).

Thus, tall people (here in the defenestration accident) are equivalent to elephants being thrown from the Eiffel Tower (this is purely a thought experiment, and no animals were killed as a result, and in particular, no elephants were injured). Short people would roughly correspond to ants in terms of their respective risk of injury.

All normal people now decided that shrinking like that was undesirable. Ergo, Paul wasn't "normal," at least not according to the generally accepted definitions of normal desires.

Paul wasn't normal because he had decided to take the stuff, voluntarily. 27/XT was easy to obtain. It worked through the skin, and the required dose was barely a cubic centimeter in volume.

He accepted the fact that he wouldn't be able to socialize with other people anymore. Katrin would be enough for him as company. He could happily do without his professional life: It was no longer enjoyable. Always just money, money, money!

And she would earn enough for both of them, since he would hardly use anything in the future.

And when all this "me too" bullshit spilled over from America, even most women had become almost unbearable (as had often been the case with his male colleagues before, he thought): A little flirtation at the copier? He laughed bitterly. On the contrary, women were becoming dangerous for his career.

He always left his office door open when a female colleague was with him for a short meeting; that also came from the USA – that tip. Being alone with a female colleague had become extremely dangerous here, too. It was always good to have witnesses if necessary. He left the elevator when a female colleague entered and he would be alone with her. He was certainly being hit on, by women but increasingly by men too. And these bimbos (also gays, etc.) were no longer to be trusted, he thought. When one of those (m/f/d) felt her pride was hurt, she was happy to make things up. And then he had to hear from colleagues what lies she had made up about him. It had happened to him several times, things like that.

No, he could do without that, he had his Katrin.

He had decided: Only sex in his life! No more obligations! Dolce Vita.

Katrin would have to accept that he would inexorably shrink; she would have no other choice; she would have to come to terms with the facts. She would continue to love him. And he would love her too.

His plan was well-rounded and coherent. He thought...

The drama begins.

Thursday (1.91 m)

If there was one thing the two of them celebrated regularly, it was their daily dinner, always hot. German cuisine, cooked by him daily, always fresh, never ready-made.

They were very health-conscious. He had quit smoking years ago, for her sake. He really did cook every day, and she was proud of him and his hobby. At her institute, her colleagues envied her for her hobby cook. Many no longer had regular hot meals, instead opting for pizza delivery, kebabs, and so on, and cooking shows on TV.

This question to her (because everyone knew about Paul's hobby) was part of the small talk with her: what had they had for dinner yesterday? It was genuine curiosity, perhaps also a suggestion. Surely a bit of envy too? "You have it good, my husband only ever watches football."

He was a good cook by now. He would just glance at what was in the fridge and drawers and always make something delicious on the spot. He used his freezer, which had a constantly updated list of the ingredients he had prepared, such as peas he had soaked, tomatoes he had cooked for hours, chopped dill, etc.

When visitors came, he would often spend several hours in the kitchen, taking even more time than he usually did for his hobby.

He found those cooking shows disgusting, the way they would crush garlic cloves without even looking and throw them skin-on into the soup. He peeled them all and cut out the brown bits, which are present in every bulb. He wouldn't eat the kind of filth he saw on those TV cooking shows.

Or, he had seen them briefly dip the spinach in a bowl of water with both hands, then, without letting go, shake off the water and casually splat it in a high arc onto the cutting board. Did no one notice that there might still be snails in there? He, in any case, was eyeing every leaf of the salad.

Now came the highlight of the show, over and over again, how cool, the camera zoomed in on the rocking cut. The most important thing in cooking is the elegant rocking cut with the chef's knife? Really?

He would never eat potatoes with their skin on like a pig. That's how much time he had to spend: He cleaned every single brown spot out of every single potato.

Not even his Thuringian dumplings were from the supermarket, no. He made them like they did a hundred years ago, from potatoes he had meticulously peeled, grated by hand, and sulfurized white, the original method – he was proud of that. Admittedly, he did use industrial potato starch. Yes, but in small quantities. That was an exception to the rule.

When visitors came, the roast had to be marinated the day before. Or the potato salad, which, as we all know, has to marinate overnight. When guests came, he gladly sacrificed many hours for his hobby.

She let him do his thing in the kitchen; he didn't want to be disturbed. Her hobby was yoga; she took care of her body and jogged.

Today there was nutritious mashed potatoes (minerals, vitamins, carbohydrates) with blood-building beef liver (iron) and healthy onions (sulfur) in good oil (vitamin E).

The TV was turned down, everything harmonious, everything good. Katrin, next to him on the couch: "Tastes great again, thanks. Based on the grades, I'd say an A. Maybe even an A+." He: "Thanks, I'm glad you like it."

She: "Do you actually make salad so rarely because mashed potatoes are quicker?" He grinned: "That's silly. You always just want salad. I prefer this. This isn't a quick meal: rolling liver in flour and all that. I have to order a big lump beef liver then cut into cubes put in plastic containers and freeze it, note down the content and date. Always add salt to the liver at the end, otherwise it gets hard, lots of pepper. Mash the potatoes, don't puree them, your friend is so stupid, she does it with a hand blender, she showed off the other day when she was here. Or straight from the bag. You women can't cook these days and you're still proud of it: 'OF COURSE I CAN'T COOK,'" he mimicked Katrin's friend, and continued pontificating: "Milk in the microwave, with the salt, goes faster than using a pan of milk, grate in a bit of nutmeg. A good half hour in total, without washing up, but washing up will be your job again later, I'm off work now." She: "Very funny, you could fill the dishwasher too. I emptied it earlier. You never do that either."

He was a little annoyed now: "Don't I do enough in the kitchen? I'd estimate that I spend at least twice as much time in the kitchen as you do every day. A conservative estimate! But while we're at it – why do you always let my pans dry out like that? You can just put a little water in them, let them sit, and that's it. I always have to soak them before cleaning them." Laughing, she said, "Your cast iron pan is too heavy for me, you know. And when I once put your cast iron pan in the dishwasher, you snapped at me afterwards. You had to burn your pan again, supposedly just because of me—that's what you said back then! Especially for me, you said, or season it or something. Anyway, the whole kitchen stank of smoke for days after your act. You really showed me that again, I remember it well. No, no, you clean your pans yourself..."

And then, thoughtfully: "This year we've been married for five years. Do you want to organize something?"

Paul already knew that this August would be different. They would celebrate together, one hundred percent: "Oh my goodness, Katrin! I have that feeling again, I don't know how to say this, you forgot, or are you trying to forget? How much we still have to pay on our house? Sometimes you're so stingy, and then other times money doesn't matter?" He started eating again.

After a few bites, he put down his cutlery: "You want to have a big party again, right? Invite all the plump relatives? Katrin! We're going dancing and that's it. We haven't been dancing in weeks, it's long overdue." She, chewing: "Longer! It's been almost two months!" He: "Can you be more specific, in minutes? Oh my goodness... [Mann, mann, mann...]" laughed and picked up his cutlery again.

What a shame, she thought. How she would have loved to show visitors around the new house again. The new furniture was shown; Paul had recently bought an ornate dresser on eBay, a valuable investment, ancient regime france, genuine. A magnificent piece, two hundred years old and restored to a high gloss, a feast for the eyes, burl wood veneer.

She was proud of her own home. Her mother still rented because her father had never earned as much, at least not as much as Paul. She had always despised Dad a little for that. My father was a hippie, she was convinced. Poor mom, married to a man with no ambition at all, but with nothing but crazy ideas in his head.

"Man, man, man... I'm not a man," she replied seriously, her eyes lowered.

When they had finished eating, he noticed that she was upset. But really upset! There was no denying that she was seriously angry. About earlier? He wondered. He stroked her back, arms, thighs, wordlessly for minutes. She let him do it in silence.

"Katrin, are you angry? Be reasonable, we have each other! Visitors are stressful, dancing is fun! Come on, give me a kiss. I'm as horny for you as I was on the first day!" Her rigidity suddenly broke, and she turned away abruptly.

She has such a beautiful neck, Paul thought. His mustache tickled her: "Stop it Paul! You only have one thing on your mind!" He, gently: "Not just one thing. Otherwise, you're right.

We should celebrate the holidays as they come.

So, my counter-proposal. As I imagined it: For a small, spontaneous party among our friends, think about it, it doesn't require that much money. Remember the expenses when your aunt was here, taxis for relatives, restaurants, and so on. We'll have a little barbecue in our little garden and talk about old times. We don't have to prepare anything major, just send out the invitations shortly beforehand, wait for the weather first, and we'll make the date later. Whoever comes, comes, whoever doesn't, doesn't. Katrin! Hello! Red wine party? I'll call the hunter! I'll cook venison, deer leg in my new Beefer? Would that be okay?"

She was silent. And she remained silent.

They didn't have sex again that evening. Of course. She wasn't in the mood.

Sunday (1.89 m)

He had given her another orgasm and was proud. In this mood, he couldn't control himself and, later in bed, told her about his discovery that 27/XT was available over the counter.

At first, she didn't understand anything, but when he said, "Darknet..." and "...that's not quite right, but you must be familiar with the Darknet, right?" she sat up in bed, the light on, a searching look deep into his eyes, and she stared at him for a long time, uncomprehending. He thought he could feel her brain rattling. Then, she, very quietly: "Are you crazy?"

He, grinning: "Nope. But I'm interested." She: "Don't you have any other worries?" He remained silent. Her look made him uncomfortable.

He thought it would be better if he kept quiet for now. But she didn't let up: "Aren't they monitoring the internet these days, this new network search law or something?" And then her eyes opened, startled by her sudden thought: "House search!"

Now she begged him, sitting bolt upright in bed, almost pleading: "Tell me you were joking. You didn't actually search the internet for those 27/XT sellers? Seriously, now, tell me, did you?" He remained silent, for a long, long time. Then he grinned at her.

She came to the conclusion: "No, you're not that stupid. You really scared me! I don't think that's right. I have to get up early tomorrow, no, today, I have to get up early. Your stupid jokes all the time..." and slowly lay down again. Turned away from him and fell asleep.

He should never dare to tell her about it again. Why should he? She would notice soon enough…

Everything Comes Out

Friday (1.86 m)

Paul was back from shopping, with her car (he drove an older Porsche sports car), groceries. And walked past her in the hallway with the two heavy plastic crates stacked on top of each other in front of his chest: "Got everything!"

She paused. He looked so strange again. Weak, somehow unfit? "You've been walking around like a sip of water for days," she thought. Her gaze followed him, examining him, and she burst out spontaneously: "Tell me, are you walking crooked?"

He stopped, startled, wordless, frozen like a pillar of salt. She approached him and began circling him.

He tried to get past her with the heavy boxes, but she stepped in his way: "Something's wrong with you! Paul, are you sick? You've seemed strange to me for days, kind of puny, like you've gotten smaller or something. Have you weighed yourself? Weight loss can be a sign of serious illness. It was just in the pharmacy review. You should see the doctor immediately, they said."

He awkwardly pushed her aside, citing his weight, finally turned his back on her, and, with an exaggerated groan, dragged his boxes into the kitchen: "...I wonder what that's all about! Don't you see how heavy it is? Don't worry, I'm healthy, see the doctor immediately? If you lose weight? What kind of stupid tabloids do you read... What nonsense!" And he barricaded himself in his kitchen.

For days, he'd been meaning to finally tell her. But he was scared, very scared. She'd freak out, that much was certain!

But the thought that she wouldn't be able to prevent 'it' (he rejoiced inwardly in joyful anticipation!) made him happy. He had made his decision. And that felt very good. No one could stop it anymore. He was guaranteed that he would now truly live out his most beautiful dream!

This certainty made him confident, despite all his fear of the revelation.

He had thought everything through carefully: She might be dangerous at first, lose it a bit—more or less, he was clearly expecting hysteria. But that would pass quickly: "She's so pragmatic! So sensible and disciplined! But my Katrin is also temperamental, be careful. But I can manage, I'm still capable of defending myself. I just have to be careful, psychologically, diplomatically somehow, and in any case, keep my distance when I tell her soon."

But when he would soon and inevitably shrink (rejoice!!!) and be in her hands, many weeks later, his Katrin would undoubtedly have completely calmed down, be gentle as a kitten again.

And she would like it. He would make sure of that.

He knew her: She, as a very reasonable human being, would accept it at some point. And finally, she would like it. And then, oh... (Hallelujah!)

He'd been constantly horny ever since he shrank, measuring his height every day. He couldn't stop his penis from getting rock hard every time. Absurd. His thing had a mind of its own, so to speak - sex is a 'mind thing' when the penis was involved, double-headed. [word game German ‚Doppelkopf‘ = a card game ]

He thought about it every minute, his body on the path to happiness without return: "Just this one more hurdle to overcome, to tell her... you can do it, you'll manage that too, and then..."

The fear rose in him again: "Shitty feeling, stupid! What else could happen to me?" In the worst case scenario, she would hit him, full of rage.

With her weak fists? He could handle that.

Or would he simply grab her wrists and hold them until she calmed down?

He could easily fend her off.

He would have to watch his shins: she would be quite capable of that, too, of angrily stepping on his toes, him in slippers, her in stilettos, ouch...

So it was better to keep his distance when he lifted the curtain, before what would inevitably happen to both of them now.

He could nimbly dodge flying porcelain; he was quick to react and agile. The greater the distance from Katrin, the easier it would be for him to handle the situation.

He had considered all conceivable options: "Brainstorm: Murder me? No. Why? She'd have fun too. Even if it were later, just like me." Besides, he didn't trust her to do it—even in the heat of the moment: "She's a lovely person, completely incapable of something like that."

His logic told him to confess to her as soon as possible, while he was still strong enough.

He felt cowardly: "I should have done it a long time ago. She'll hold it against me. I'll have to admit that I already knew when she was planning her wedding anniversary that it wouldn't happen... That'll cause trouble. But time heals all wounds."

He had brought a fresh head of lettuce, perfect, beautiful as a picture. She liked his leaf salad. She liked vegan food anyway and ate all kinds of salads. He didn't like it so much: Everything she liked was too sweet. But he ate it too, much to her displeasure, without passion.

When he made salad (not the potato salad with mayonnaise, I mean—he liked that more than she did), it was actually always just a gift, from him, for her. He jokingly called it "dragon food" to tease her.

[In German, it's all called salad: potato salad, pasta salad, rapunzel salad ... but for Katrin, that makes a huge difference]

Yes, when he made her salad [that means vegan here], he always had a special place in her heart.

The effort involved in producing this green food, he felt, was disproportionate to the profit, so to speak; it yielded little and took a lot of time. The tedious work of washing the leaves, for example! Rinsing them all individually, of course, because they were often full of vermin (she insisted on "organic")!

And so he inspected every leaf before tearing it apart. No snails in the salad, ever! He was particular about that. Even with Brussels sprouts and all other vegetables that could have worms, and usually did, he cleaned each individual sprout with a technician's magnifying glass, spending almost half an hour per meal. Sometimes he threw away more than half.

She loved his homemade sauerkraut with caraway and garlic; she loved anything raw anyway.

This time, he'd composed her salad with raspberry vinegar, and with the extra virgin olive oil she'd chosen (fake anyway, viva italia), spices, almonds, and so on. Always different; she liked his salad variations and enjoyed being surprised.

Sometimes he'd get extra sex for salad. "That's how simple women are," he thought with a grin.

Ergo: After eating the salad, he'd do it! Then would be the right moment to let her in on it...

Contrary to his initial resolution, however, he started getting back to the topic while they were eating salad together: "You!" - "Yes?" - "Hey, I told you I knew where to buy that X-stuff." She, chewing: "Hmmm... don't bother, just don't remind me again..." He, cautiously: "You can get a single dose via the Tor browser for a mere hundred euros including shipping... anyone can buy it."

She looked up and examined him critically: "How do you know that? From TV?" He: "Nope, firsthand." She lowered her fork and glared at him angrily: "So that wasn't a joke, the other day? You! Did! So! Did! Research!?!"

"Yes, I did," he admitted.

She threw her fork down on the laminate floor: "Tell me, sometimes I really wonder if you're out of your mind! What's the point of that? I mean, what's the point? The Americans have been intercepting all communication data in Europe for decades, storing everything, everything since the advent of telex, and storing it on tape for all eternity—telephone, everything, including fax and email. And our dear EU controls the internet with AI and has real-time access to connection data from internet providers, and you're doing this crap? What if we have the Federal Office for the Protection of the Constitution in our house tomorrow?" He, smiling: "You're exaggerating. Germany doesn't even have a constitution yet. The GDR did. You're seeing ghosts. Besides, they have much better things to do than persecute me for gross mischief on the dark web."

She, her face contorted with anger, shaking her head: "But what's the point? You don't want to get that stuff. No normal person takes that voluntarily! It's used for special cases, I'd say. Agents, the mafia, personal revenge, I don't know what for. And you know how risky it is. I mean, the re-enlargement. And the treatment is extremely expensive. And only billionaires get therapy! Are we billionaires? What castles in the air are you building? I could shoot her, I'm so angry!"

He didn't dare look at her, only thought: "If not now, when?" and murmured, barely audibly, "And if I don't want to grow again at all, afterward?"

A long silence fell. She had understood him, acoustically. But only acoustically...

Then she suddenly yelled at him: "Say, are you crazy? That would be hell for you, there are enough reports! You want to spank me, don't you?!"

He looked at her and said emphatically: "No. At all. Not. I. Want. To. Spank. You. I've seriously thought about it. You know, I want to be completely yours, sex 24 hours a day, all week, until the end of my days. We'd be together forever! And I think you'd like it too."

She snorted with anger: "So. Do you think so? I want to tell you something I believe. I think you should shut your stupid head now, otherwise something bad will happen!" and she stood up to walk away angrily.

He hastily: "Katrin, I've been wanting to tell you for a long time. But it was always somehow, well, how should I say it... too risky for me! Because I knew you'd get upset. Believe me, it'll be great for you too. So in short: I took it."

She returned hesitantly, plopped down on the couch next to him, looked him in the eyes, and whispered: "What did you take?"

He quietly confessed to her: "Well, this 27/XT. I took 27/XT. Through my skin. Two weeks ago." and lowered his gaze. He was ashamed of having lied to her for so long. Maybe he should have told her before?

But he didn't want to risk his plan failing! For example, that she would have him committed to the nuthouse, along the lines of "Just to protect you from yourself" or something like that... That had been his greatest fear. Yes, he certainly believed she was capable of that.

So he chose the strategy of creating a fait accompli.

He had expected anger. And/or whining.

But what followed was a series of hysterical outbursts that alternated from screams of rage, with short periods of high frequency, to howls of deep despair, and back again: "I can't believe it!" she screamed at him, so that he instinctively shrank away from her rage-contorted face. Then a howl: "What a selfish asshole you are, hoooo, ... I'm so ashamed ... What will my mother say ... how am I supposed to tell my mother?" She collapsed next to him, her hands over her face.

As her tears welled between her fingers, she suddenly looked up. And, giggling, she whispered to him: "She'll ask us: Are you still having good sex? - hehehe..."

She became more and more enthralled by this, as she found it, funny idea: "...when I show up at her place for a visit, with you holding her hand, you'll be like a little child, or even funnier - with you in my arms! She'll ask me if I'm breastfeeding you yet, hehehe..."

Then she jumped up.

Then, full of despair, pacing back and forth, her breasts heaving, her head gyrating hysterically, her long, straight chestnut-brown hair flying: "No, no, no, no. NO!!! I can't stand it! You take it back! Immediately, I won't let you leave the house until you do. We'll just say you're on a business trip? Or something else... That's how we do it. But this... No, not this!"

She stood up in front of him, Paul, the huge guy, shrank back from her in shock to the other end of the couch: "I've seen those stupid TV reports. They're voyeuristic, this crap is just embarrassing. I'm not going to subject myself to that. Imagine, the reporters lying in wait for me outside my front door... with questions... disgusting questions, like: Mrs. Schulze, dear Mrs. Schulze, hello Mrs. Schulze." Katrin foolishly imitated a sensationalist reporter, waving excitedly to an imaginary counterpart, jumping: "Mrs. Schulze, our viewers just want to know: do they also enjoy pleasant feelings when he enjoys being in their vagina? We at RTL, and the viewers of RTL, think that's fine! You're married, Mrs. Schulze! There's nothing immoral about it for a modern woman to enjoy talking about it! You're welcome to tell us that! Do you still enjoy your husband? You can't. Happy to betray our people in this country, who are happy to sympathize with her fate, but happy, please, happy…”

Then she plopped down on the sofa and cried again, uncontrollably, her face in her hands, rocking, her elbows on her knees.

After a quarter of an hour, she sighed deeply, sobbing sobbing sobbing, and fell silent.

Tearful, she finally looked at him silently.

He stammered, “I'm sorry, yes, yes. Yes, yes, sorry, I didn't know, didn't mean to, I'm sorry, really…” He was met by her piercing gaze and then looked at her silently and submissively.

Finally, she spoke, very calmly, in a deep voice: “You do know that you're not allowed to leave the house anymore?”

House Arrest

Thursday (he is one meter and fifteen centimeters long)

He had made spaghetti. With sage leaves in butter, crispy. She had bought the sage plant at a hardware store sometime.

She went to hardware stores purely for her own pleasure: to look around and shop. She bought plants and, worse, he thought: junk for the apartment. Horrid, useless "decorative" stuff, typical of those branches wrapped in foam rubber with original Italian terracotta pots and wire, painted silver bronze, something like what they call "dust collectors."

He only went to the hardware store when he had to, for example, when he needed a sealant of some kind; plumbing would also be a useful hobby for men, she thought.

In hardware stores, he could see that there were quite a few differences in purchasing behavior between men and women: men bought screws in boxes, women bought screw trees in pots.

Sometimes he wondered where those women with shopping carts full of useless plants planted all that stuff? A willow tree can easily grow to 10 meters tall. "Women," he thought, "for them, the hardware store is a shopping event, for me it's always just a tedious purchase. They want it, I have to."

Since they had almost only shade around their cottage because of the hedge—she had prevailed over his reservations (he especially dreaded the necessary maintenance work), it was a real draw that he could prepare a meal for her, from this, her, ailing plant.

For the past few months, she had gone out almost every day to water her beloved sage bush. He had planted it well, even driving to the hardware store to get potting soil. He had researched it online.

But most of the time, what she brought home didn't grow. He often got scolded by her for it. He wasn't sure if it was his intention, or if he simply wasn't an expert enough. Or if it was because of her care.

She had gone to bed almost immediately after dinner, earlier than usual. He hurriedly followed her, hopeful.

He wasn't to be disappointed in his hopes; her hand came over, briefly caressed his stomach, then slid down to his genitals. She grabbed his penis and shook it.

"So, what's that?" she asked mischievously. "Not in the mood today?" He, in turn, reached between her legs, and he immediately began to fuss.

She was wet. "Well?" she said, "...before it's too late? Before you're too small for my taste?"

"Why?" he asked hypocritically, knowing exactly what she meant: "Why shouldn't we have sex in the future? On the contrary, you'll see. You'll like it too. Oh... I'm so happy, I did the right thing, you'll agree. No, not 'see' it! Above all, you'll 'feel' it! You'll want to have sex with me every day. And I will too, at least. I won't have to go to the office anymore, I'll have endless virility. We'll be together forever and ever. Just the two of us."

He wanted the bedroom light to always be on when they had sex. She didn't mind, and so he could now see the anger rising in her face.

He was now afraid for his pleasure, "Once again, I've made a stupid mistake, you idiot..." he thought to himself, "...and then just before the bang, now all over?!"

And he had been so happy.

But she had propped herself up on her right elbow and was looking at him with furrowed brows: "Now don't act like you don't know what I mean."
He grinned: "You mean fuck?" She snapped at him: "I don't like that word!" She fell onto her back and pouted, her arms crossed under her naked breasts.

She just seemed a little annoyed to him, still... He knew she could get carried away. And then the fun would be over for him.

Before she completely lost interest, he hurried to salvage the mood with caresses and sweet words.

And now he slowly began to crawl onto her. How enormous she had become. He noticed with joy that she opened her thighs. He lay between them and pushed himself upwards.

He reached his starting position; she let him, her arms still crossed right in front of his eyes, like a barrier.

While they were fucking, he would no longer, he thought, he would never be able to kiss her again, while they would fuck in the future, neverever again kissing! His mouth barely reached her collarbone.

But now he had her perfect, pink nipples right in front of him, with their small areolas, and thought: "Still like a girl's."

She opened her arms, then wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He sucked: Something salty, hard and soft. She placed one hand on the back of his head and pressed him into her breast, then guided him to the other, and then back again.

How beautifully round her globes were, he thought; she didn't really need a bra.

How much the sight of her in her T-shirt always aroused him – but she had told him: "Other people enjoy it too, that's why I wore a bra."

Her skin was absolutely flawless, except for the small mole next to her left labia, her entire body white and smooth, tanned in the summer, without a single white patch; they went to the nude beach.

He was able to insert his penis immediately, and she said: "Not so fast with the young horses! Easy, bay!" and laughed.

She took care of it for him, always.

Then she, grumpy: "I don't really notice you anymore, damn." And she remembered that it was his fault, not hers: "But that's what you wanted..."

He tried hard, but that was all, really.

After the embarrassing experiment for both of them, she finally moaned, audibly annoyed, suddenly gripped his ass tighter, "how powerful she can be," he thought, and rolled over him - with him.

As she did, he slid out of her. She immediately squatted over him, on her knees, slowly lowering her widely spread thighs and threading him back in.

"Still doesn't work!" she said after a short while, during which she desperately squirmed and pressed him into the mattress beneath her.

Then, awkwardly, shifting her weight to the left, she rolled off him over her left knee, stood up, and, skillfully tiptoeing across the springy mattress, stood over him, legs wide apart - he enjoyed this view every time, from below between her legs - squatted down, inserted him again, this time sitting on him the other way around.

Now he saw her beautiful, flawless back, her vertebrae in a straight line and her shoulder blades, "not an ounce of fat," he thought.

As she leaned forward, now impatient, he saw her beautiful ass: round and smooth, her cheeks spread, her pink anus, with fine wrinkles. And that vulva crease above his penis, and above that her anus. Now his rock-hard cock disappeared completely inside her, all he could see was her anus, pink, everything down there was pink, she was naturally blonde, not a hint of brown pigment on her. Except for her brown eyes. With a blue-gray-green ring, if he looked closely.

It wasn't happening. "He" wasn't enough for her anymore.

He was almost there, quietly: "I'm coming..." No wonder, given the sight. Then, unfortunately, unfortunately, he thought, she lifted her buttocks again, and he slipped out, frustrated.

But then she slid her ass across his stomach, wiggling; he now knew exactly what she was planning. "Even better, licking pussy," he thought happily. And then she rested briefly on his chest, finally her wet vulva reaching his face. Her anus close to his eyes, blurred, he savored the sight of her impressive, round ass, left and right like two round balls, smooth and without a single pimple.

At first—he didn't yet know that some things had changed—at first, entirely for his own pleasure. Because now it was exactly how he had always wanted Kathrin to be: uninhibitedly following her desires. This is completely new, wonderful, he thought, and gives hope for the future.

But then, when his entire face was in her flesh, fragrant, slimy, hot, pressed between her thighs, swinging back and forth like a madman, she hit his nose several times with her pubic bone, her immense weight bearing down on him.

And then two more times, briefly but painfully, he could just about see again – it must have been her tailbone. In those moments, she navigated, testing, even her anus over his nose.

It all hurt too much for him. It ruined his desire for the whole thing. He was frightened by this new problem. He absolutely had to tell her afterward, probably she wasn't aware of it?

And when the next time it felt like she was going to break his nose, he tried to lift her off with his hands, "Stop it. I have to tell her now, right now," he thought.

No chance, she wanted to keep doing it and pushed against it. She was clearly stronger than him, now.

He tried several more times to push her up, but he couldn't lift her; she resisted. He also tried to push her sideways away from his face. She balanced this skillfully each time and finally rested her weight on his sore nose.

Then he felt his nose sink into something very soft; it must have been her vaginal opening. As she adjusted, he could hear again for a moment; her thighs briefly freed his ears; he could hear her sighing from above.

And then she was on top of him again, or rather, he was inside her. A part of him was inside her, dark, muffled sounds, no chance. He couldn't get her off. She seemed to be enjoying it, like a pleasurable contest to see who was stronger.

When he turned his head away, once successful, he heard again. He heard her giggle briefly, but then her hands came and powerfully turned his face back into position, back into her bare, wet crotch.

He had become too weak even to prevent this.

Before she lowered her lower body onto his head again, carefully trying to guide his nose into the most comfortable position for her, he had a brief opportunity to tell her something. He could just barely mumble into the folds of her vulva, but she seemed to have understood; he had said "my nose."

She paused briefly, reduced the pressure, and now, hovering over his face, began to massage her clitoris with his nose.

And then, suddenly, her moans turned into whimpers. She pressed her heavy pelvis against his face again, almost motionless. He felt her contractions and tried to catch his breath, but nothing came. Soft flesh, darkness, silence, shortness of breath...

Should he bite her? He no longer liked the whole process. He would tell her later, not like this, miss. Not like this again! Since when has she been so rough? It was she, the one who had always accused him of being unempathetic, and now she was doing something like this to him?

She slumped forward, savoring her afterglow.

He hadn't come.

He didn't want to see her huge ass anymore, looked away, disappointed, even feeling guilty, which confused him.

She moaned, still gripping his cock firmly: "“Hmmm … that was niiiiice … so gooooood ...”

She's finally getting lustful.

Wednesday (three feet five inches)

He knew it was pretty odd that he'd been the cook in their relationship for years. Although: German girls are ashamed of being able to cook: If you don't fight back, you end up at the stove, as has been said for decades.

Even more unusual was that he cooked every day, every day! With exceptions, of course, like short trips, when they ate in hotels or something. Ever since they'd been together, it had been like this: He cooked for her every day.

She, on the other hand, did his laundry, all the way down to the ironing, once or twice a week. She couldn't cook at all. He, in turn, wasn't even able to use the washing machine because he never had to.

This division of labor had become routine, and they had no problem cooking alone or doing the laundry alone, each for themselves, each knowing their job and knowing what was required.

It was all over, he couldn't cook anymore, not really, as the English say (Katrin wasn't amused by this). He had become too small.

He had tried for a long time to continue being the boss in the kitchen. Like he used to, when he would swing around the kitchen alone, knife-wielding, between the sink, cutting board, induction stove, microwave, and the battery of waste sorting bins, while she read her daily newspaper in the living room, with a coffee he would leave for her when she needed it, or a cappuccino; she needed something to go with it anyway.

But now he was increasingly having problems: Just getting to the wall cabinets on his own! That involved an unacceptable amount of extra effort for him: He needed the ladder. But it got in his way... As difficult as it had become for him, it all took far too long for a smooth workflow.

Whereas in the past, when he was over six feet three, he could finish quickly, working on three or more pots at once, things weren't going so well anymore, and his usual rapid workflow was coming to a halt.

As a result, he had mishaps, especially with those critical, parallel tasks at the stove, where sometimes seconds count. He would suddenly miss them due to his little mishaps: His onions would burn, or his roux would burn, because he was held up by mishaps (like the ladder falling over in his haste), and so on.

Now it was impossible: He could only measure ‚1-0-5‘ cm. Handling the containers that were too heavy for him, boiling water, and splattering fat became extremely dangerous for him!

Even simple things like the usual hasty chopping of vegetables: His chef's knife was simply too big for his small hands. That, too, was dangerous. He gave his knives to the nearby gypsies for a basic sharpening; they could do it, and afterward the blades were razor-sharp.

He vacated the field. She took over. But she really couldn't.

Hot meals were rare in their house.

He always sat behind the central kitchen table when she, grumpy and in a bad mood, did cook something: Where is this? Where is that? How do I do this, how do I do that...? He wasn't allowed to get in her way.

It was terrible, endless stress, arguments, and then her aggression: "I've had a day at work, and now I'm standing behind the stove! You men take it easy. We women have a double burden." – She finally threw him out: "Keep your comments to yourself! I'm stressed, and you're making fun of me!" But he had only wanted to help in a friendly way...

For a few days now, he had left her to work alone in the kitchen. Every now and then he heard a frightened squeal and/or a scream of anger. She hated cooking even more now.

He was bored in the living room.

He would gladly take some of the work off her hands; he was good with the computer. His income tax return was due. She'd never done it before, and he'd gladly do it again, but she'd asked for his password pad and blocked his access. All access. Otherwise, he'd just get stupid ideas, she said.

And she'd said to him succinctly: "A missing person doesn't post." - "Yes, fine, but what about access to the computer?" He wasn't worth an answer to her, so she simply walked away and left, leaving him alone in the study.

He hadn't been on the internet for weeks. That used to be his only source of information—she only read the news in the newspaper.

All he had left was the news on TV. He had hardly ever watched television; it was just garbage, and her series were even more of a horror to him. But he tolerated the fact that she regularly took the time to watch this sentimental kitsch. Women—that's just how they are, he said.

And thought: As far as I'm concerned, she should leave the Ethernet plug on her cable modem unplugged, as long as he can access his data again? He could sort through his old pictures or something… That would be something! And she'd have the certainty that he can't send emails.

He was with her less and less often; he spent most of his time lounging around alone in the living room, while she was usually in the study, or sometimes in the kitchen. They only spent time together in front of the TV and in bed.

Eating together became the exception. She left something for him more and more often and then went into the study alone with some kind of ready-made salad to eat in front of the computer when she had to do something for her institute. But he had also noticed that she was doing a lot of research on problems with male shrinkage. Before she kicked him out because "he was annoying."

She didn't talk to him much anymore. But she became more lively in bed! Her recent lovemaking was astonishing; she now sat on his face every day, pulling him into the bedroom and into the marital bed when he was "dawdling."

When she was standing in the kitchen again, he decided to ask her. Because the kitchen door was open, his chance. She was really making herself scarce! And closing the doors behind her. Lately, she'd even often locked him in the living room: He was annoying, she said, justifying it.

Arriving in the kitchen, she was just making herself a cappuccino and opening a can of salad, he couldn't even finish a whole sentence because she snapped at him, saying she "didn't have time for his blather" and that he knew why.

Yes, he knew, he could already sing, that it was "his fault": She now had to do a lot more housework, in addition to her job, all because of him.

So, guiltily, he asked: "Katrin, are you still mad at me?"

No answer, next attempt: "I can take some work off your hands. What should I do? I've still got a lot of skills. I don't mean sex. Hee hee..." He wanted the sex thing to be taken as a joke, because he really wanted her to let him use the computer again.

That backfired. At first she seemed to be laughing to herself, then she left the drawer open from which she'd just taken her fork for the salad, turned around, leaned down, and barked at him: "What is left of your abilities during our sex? I haven't even noticed your little thing for a long time!" She nodded her head with every word, chirping:: "Are you! Already! In? Are you finally in?" and turned back to her plastic-wrapped industrial salad meal: "You're really good at sex. You're the best stud in our backyard..." she muttered bitterly into her salad.

He suggested, without addressing her criticism of his penis size, that they take on computer tasks: "Income tax returns and all that! It's all digital, you can just pull out that folder with the tax office stuff and drop it off for me."

And he'd always done the office stuff before, so why not anymore? She didn't even know how to enter the data into the software, which she hadn't even bought, let alone installed...

She just waved her hand, and then quietly: "Leave me alone!"

Without him having had a chance to eat dinner, she dragged him straight from brushing his teeth to bed: "Ready?" She smelled freshly washed downstairs.

Earlier, after she'd asked him to wait before she gave him the sink to use for his evening toilet, he'd watched her from behind as she scrubbed herself downstairs with a washcloth. She grinned at him in the mirror: "...I'm looking forward to it... are you?"

Otherwise, it was like every other evening. She came, it took less than half an hour.

She always came now, sooner or later. Every day, she enjoyed her orgasmic bliss on his little head, and that seemed to be the reason why she insisted on being licked goodnight by him.

He couldn't do any more than that, sexually and all, she mocked mercilessly.

And he had to agree with her when she reminded him, as she did every day, that it was he who had wanted it that way. That he had been completely stupid and was therefore solely to blame for her having such a hard time now. Before she mounted him...

7. Hours of television or 'Together in front of the TV'

Monday (95 centimeters)

When he was sitting on her lap again, on the living room couch at the dining table, the back of his head between her breasts, watching the news with her, she said suddenly: "You'll never go to the office again..."

And then: "...have you actually thought about how we're going to get the money together for the installments, now that you're completely out of pocket? I can only get a widow's pension with a death certificate or something. Right now, you're not contributing anything!"

He had no idea how she could have gone from flood damage in Bangladesh to the topic of money: "You have to file a missing person report. Why haven't you done that yet?" he replied. He found this much more urgent than always talking about 'her money... money, money, money.'

She leaned over him surprisingly quickly and screamed in his face from the top right corner: "Are you crazy? Missing person report? I've run out of money!!!" and immediately realized the pointlessness of her question, regretting her spontaneous yelling.

After a short pause, she asked calmly, unconsciously pulling him towards her: "How long have you been planning this?"

He remained silent; she held him in her arms; she had grown strong. Was she shifting nervously? No, he thought, she was deliberately rubbing herself against him, barely noticeable, but he could feel it, she was "cuddling" with him. Her nipples were erogenous zones, the crooks of her elbows, her thighs...

She began hoarsely: "You're right. I..." she cleared her throat and continued calmly: "...I'm sorry I yelled at you." He grumbled, "Hmmm..." in his childish voice. She: "I'll go to the police tomorrow and report your disappearance. Uh, hem...

But I'm still out of money. What do you suggest? I mean, do you have any ideas? This can't go on. It's just not enough."

He didn't want to and couldn't suggest anything to her about how she could get fresh money: "The police will ask you why you're only coming now. Just say we had an argument and I left without my suitcase and Porsche. Spontaneously. Somewhere. I would have done that more often. Tell them I've always been a firehead. And quick-tempered, that you've tried unsuccessfully to send me to a shrink, but I always reacted angrily.

Say you were afraid of me. That you think I was manic-depressive. That I once hit you in a fit of rage, pushed you away, and so on. Then, depressed again, I would have mumbled something about 'I'll take a rope' and taken off. Not just once, I'd have always told you afterwards that I was 'for a walk in the woods.' That would have happened more and more often, recently about every other week.

Sometimes for more than a day, I would never have told you anything after that. What I was doing the whole time? It remained unclear to you. And now I'd be dead, definitely. You firmly believe that, tell them immediately.

Tell them something about the womanizing you accused me of, mistresses or something, you don't know, you have a suspicion, or 27 of them, press the tear duct: Your husband often stayed out overnight after an argument. And maybe that I was always in a brothel then? You suspected. Because we were always out of money, you tell them, and that's not a lie.

In that, Police officers believe a woman without checking.

You wouldn't know the details of what I was doing the whole time I was away. You don't know anything, but you believe this and that. Make something up, what you believe can be stupid. It's fine to be illogical, then the Detective Inspector has something to ask and less time to lead you astray.

Let yourself be corrected in your assumptions and fantasies. But don't say anything verifiable; always just say what you feel, believe, and think—well, all that feminine sentimentality that has to be accepted without question these days: If a man feels like a woman, then he is a woman, period. That's how it is in the Civil Code now. In your case, if you, as a woman, feel that I hanged myself in the woods and am now dead, then that's just how it is. Period.

You have to demand 'respect'! 'Respect' is modern and American. It works!

That's how it is in German law today, it comes from the women's rights activists: Female feelings are objective, never merely 'subjective,' and certainly not ignorable. As police officers, they have a duty to enforce the law, which means respecting what you feel and believe as a woman.

The police psychologist will explain to you why you didn't go to the police with your feeling that I'm dead: Because you were ashamed.

And that aunt there will always tell you, "Everything's fine," she'll feel sorry for you, hehehe...

What you're fantasizing about will be beyond any doubt, because you're a woman.

That you telepathically felt exactly that I hanged myself that night? A credible statement, no doubt about it!

Make up a dream or something, that could be the biggest bullshit. You're a sensitive wife, they won't dare say anything critical about it, they'll even record the nonsense you dreamed!

You'll see, it could be the biggest bullshit, believe me, they'll search the whole forest!"

She found it all logical, and he continued: "Why did I run away? Tell them, quite ashamedly, that I tried to rape you. It doesn't matter anymore because I'm dead. But that makes the whole thing more believable. They'll have to believe you as an abused wife. You don't have to show bruises, don't make the mistake of producing something there; they'll determine how old they are and then they'll pull the trigger, and then you'll be screwed. Then we're done for!

We'll make up a simple story, KISS, keep it simple, stupid: You turned away from me in bed one evening, I turned you back and wanted to kiss you. You would have already felt raped and maybe overreacted—sob sob—and slapped me. I would have hurt you terribly, because I crushed your upper arms to a pulp. Well, that's how it felt to you, enough! 'Woman' felt it, so it's a fact.

But as an athlete, you didn't have any bruises, unfortunately, you can't show anything. You have good blood vessels, otherwise you would have gotten really bad bruises, because it was sooo bad and everything would have hurt so much for days, grievous bodily harm.

And then you wanted to call the police in bed with your smartphone on the nightstand, and I would have yelled at you, inflicted endless psychological abuse on you...

After your long torment, I would have finally let go of you, gotten dressed, and left again.

And at first, you were glad about that. Then you didn't call 911 again because I had run away.

You didn't remember anything else, and you were so sorry for what you had done. They'll comfort you at the station, don't worry, you had every right to defend yourself. This could have been much worse if you hadn't acted so forcefully. We both know the stories: terrible what husbands do to their wives, first seriously injured with two knife wounds and then dragged 250 meters through the streets of Hameln, she had to marry him according to Islamic law and other more unhappy wives like you....

Play the role of the weak female victim in your tragedy.

And then they'll have a higher priority warrant, meaning they're beyond reproach: marital rape. And I'm dead, the only one who would have a motive to expose it as your lie. It's watertight!

You can go ahead and tell illogical things, they'll correct you, and then your story will be plausible. Corrections like that are great for the wanted list. They'll probably sit a woman down with you and explain to you empathetically all the terrible things I would have done to you, psychologically+violently+male+toxic, in technical jargon, all the psycho bullshit on file. Just say: Yes, that's how it was, just as that aunt there would have said, now you would remember exactly... blah blah blah.

Accuse me until I stink, I don't care, it won't matter anymore if they come after me for rape. I'm dead to the rest of the world.

Just cry about how disappointed you were, how mean I became, and how I would have run away like crazy when you threatened me with the police. What you'd regret now, cry cry, sob sob, you know... You just have to really imagine what an asshole I would have been and how I wouldn't have left you any choice.

Just imagine that for a while.

And then you'll get the death certificate for me. And then you'll get two thousand euros a month, like a subscription, a widow's pension, plus your salary. Two grand a month, roughly, on top of that. Plus life insurance. Well? Wouldn't that be great?!

I'll play it through with you. Several times, definitely.

I think it would be better if you went to the police later, not tomorrow! We have to come up with a story, and you have to learn it by heart. No notes! And then you go and report it, wailing, hehehe...

Oh, and you would have been ashamed to go to the police. It happens often, that raped women are ashamed.

I would have run towards the woods, like always when I ran away—you think, usually into the woods, but you don't know anything—you would have just sat in the living room and cried for hours. Something like that.

But you have to remember exactly what you said. It's best to write it down immediately, afterward, what you've recorded. Even if they give you a copy. You don't know what the detective will simply remember and what won't be included in the interrogation transcript.

We just have to choose the day, the date of my disappearance, for the legend, I mean, for what you'll tell the police. They'll write it all down for the file. That's important; I still have to think about it. Can you get my manager's calendar? No, we'll do that later.

We have to tell each other the legend over and over again until we almost believe it ourselves. That's important so you don't end up blabbing too much."

She had listened attentively to him and agreed: "You've been thinking about it longer than I have. I always thought you wanted to shrink, that was purely theoretical? That was some kind of fairy tale? You're building castles in the air for us, but it was always your quirk, okay, not just for you: Because, I often liked listening to you, during sex."

He corrected her: "Because I often liked listening to you." She: "What?" He: "American sentence structure, with 'because,' how stupid I find this, this aping! In German, it's 'Weil ich dir zugehört habe' (Because I you listened to have) - Not, because that's wrong: Because, I did this, because I did that. Because, I listened to you - The correct one is 'Weil ich dir zugehört' (Because I to you listened). ‚Because‘ I this did or 'Because' I that did."

She paused, speechless.

And then she continued: "Yeah, yeah. I'd like to have your problems, or not, whatever. I sometimes don't understand your composure. If I were you, I'd worry about the real problems you'll soon have."

He: "What do you mean?" - "Paul! Maybe you're shrinking a little right now?" Paul: "I think that's cool... You're a little too, right?" He grinned at her and thought: As long as she's as nice to me as she has been so far... He would never voluntarily tell her about his growing fears...

She ignored his erotic allusion that she, too, was a little excited about his shrinking: "What else have you thought up for your future? It's pretty real now... I mean, for our future, you always being with me! Forever! Until the end of time..."

Since he remained silent, she persisted: "Before, you must have thought about it, I mean, before you did that stupid thing? Maybe I'll come up with completely new ideas then?!" And she finally grinned up at him, tried to look into his eyes, but he kept turning away.

He refused to answer, remained silent. He didn't like her tone at all; it sounded somehow sultry, shaky. As if the topic aroused her, sexually aroused her, somehow voyeuristic, he found her questions.

He thought he could smell it; he smelled her sexual arousal increasingly early, selectively like a police dog. Once learned, he thought. As often as I'd been led behind her to bed lately, following her scent like a wake.

She pressed him against her, briefly suffocating him: "I love you..." and he gasped: "...not so much, please! ... I love you too..." and they continued watching television in silence, her hands now on his thighs: A panel discussion on the topic of "Shrunken Masculinity?"

As expected, the TV stations had also jumped on the bandwagon. The topic brought in more ratings than football matches.

Even the state broadcasters incorporated it into their crime series and soap operas, with real dwarves as actors.

The reality shows, this 'scripted reality' trash, brought grotesque stories, whether staged or not, which fascinated him, and he'd get a hard-on just by turning on the television, anticipating the grotesque images. Until a few weeks ago. Back then, he mostly watched secretly because she found his consumption excessive and these stories supposedly didn't interest her.

He watched, she didn't. That had changed, in fact, the other way around: He used to enjoy watching everything investigative reporters had discovered about the shrunken men's misfortune, but now it repelled him.

But recently, she'd been switching to such things herself. He had to admit that it also aroused her sexually! He smelled it! He felt it, sitting on her lap.

Once she grinned at him: "You have no idea what I'm going to do to you."

He was astonished; he blurted out: "Oh? All of a sudden? Why?"

She, mischievously: "Are you scared now that it's too late? You should have thought about that earlier. I think you're starting to get an idea where this is headed. It won't always be fun for you. And with all the trouble you're causing me, you deserve it."

If she weren't looking over his head at the big screen where the introduction was playing, she would have seen his eyes, wide open with shock. He sat silently on her lap, his mouth slightly open, pondering what he had just heard.

But she was already working on the next topic: "By the way, what type of 27/XT did you actually buy?" - "What?... type?" - "So which type 27/XT, the final size, I mean your final size?" He hurried with the answer so she wouldn't notice his uncertainty: "Well, don't worry about it. I didn't buy the 15 cm, it would have been too risky for me. For starters."

She asked, lurking, "Why not? But?"

He stammered: "How should I put it... At first, I wanted to... But I can always do it like this, make myself smaller, I mean, let's say 'touch it up'. Heeheehe..." he feigned cheerfulness.

But he wasn't at all comfortable with it; her delicate question embarrassed him, and especially the way she asked it, so... so... salacious?

Trying to be calm, he acted casual: "They still have these after-shots for sale, not expensive. Let's just wait and see..."

Katrin: "So?"

Paul: "35 cm"

Katrin: "Ahhh..." - Did he detect disappointment?

An awkward silence, then she, like a terrier: "Why not 15 cm?"

After a while, Paul, hesitant and serious: "...who knows...in your pussy...forgive me for using the term cunt...what it's really like in there. For me, that is. And if you still enjoy it, then..." Paul giggled in agony, "will I never see the light of day again? You understand, right? It was just too risky for me when I placed the order, the 15. I clicked on 35 instead."

She said meaningfully - nothing.

He, almost apologetically: "Postponed is not cancelled. I'm looking forward to it."

Paul had feigned the last sentence because he felt uneasy about his prospects, his uncertain future: What would it really be like? In that respect, it was like the famous 'whistling in the woods': more for his own reassurance, this "I'm looking forward to it."

Katrin: "I'm kind of happy too. For you... When you... yes, you, wanted it so much. I can't change it now. You'll soon be a millstone around my neck [orig: ‚zum Klotze an meinem Bein‘ = be a block at my leg], or, to put it in your jargon: ---untranslatable play on words---" [orig: Du wirst bald zum Klotze, an meiner Fotze = You'll soon be a block on my cunt]

After she said the forbidden F-word, she burst into laughter at her little rhyme. He was shaken around, sitting on her lap with her arms around him, sliding off several times. She picked him up like a child, easily, while laughing at him.

Wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes, she continued: "But I asked about the final size, your final size, because I heard on the car radio yesterday that there's a terrible proliferation of this stuff on the black market. They're doing business with all sorts of concoctions of rubbish. I don't understand who's buying all these quantities. There can't be as many sex-hungry guys like you in the world, can there?"

Paul remained dejectedly silent. Yes, he had read that too, later, after his purchase.

She added: "Maybe they screwed us over and it stops at 90 cm?" Paul registered: She had said 'screwed us over.'

Katrin continued: "Well, you should know. As I said, I would never have done that if I were you. But whatever, it is what it is. I hope for your sake that the final product turns out the way you dreamed it would."

Paul did not miss, she had said 'final product.' And meant him.

He, a 'end product' for her? Interesting. For the first time, he had serious concerns, rational ones, but also a racing heart. Was fear rising within him? Of her?

On television, the talk show had ended by now, a dwarf was fleeing from three racy women in miniskirts. Damn trash TV, he thought.

I've made a few clarifying additions to the English version as follows.

Because this one of our problems in the Federal Republic of Germany isn't immediately obvious to, say, an American (for example, there's no "Sie" in English, which is why it's also shall be abolished in German? Complete strangers brazenly call you “you” these days! etc.), maybe ridiculous, but because it's of central importance to this story.

So I had to explain some of the specifics of the German language that I used. But don't worry, it's only this chapter... I'll stop after that. ;-)

The necessity of this introduction became clear to me when I received the accusation in the review: "...… reaktionäre Genöle über die ach so 'sprachverhunzte" und 'politisch korrekte' Welt …" (roughly: "Reactionary whining about the oh-so-'linguistically bungled' and 'politically correct' world"). However, my thesis is, as is well known from me: Women are also human beings, no less, but also no more than this.

But: Based on that (not really) feminist ideology, that women are somehow "noble, helpful, and good" (Goethe) by nature, it logically denies the possibility of so-called "toxic male abuse of power" (one of many feminist idioms in the German language) among women. Which I consider to be not entirely harmless nonsense. Just this: women can be the more fearless warmongers, as we can see.

Originating from the USA, this nonsense (post-feminism?) is causing great damage here (also me too, blm, etc.).

This is exactly how it is with the “woke” ideology: In German, for example, the phrase "cyclists have to dismount" (according to the text of an official traffic sign https://images.trafficsupply.nl/imgfill/900/900/i-122192-d5e/verkehrszusatzeichen-1012-32-radfahrer-absteigen) has always addressed everyone (supposedly well over 60 genders?!). Everyone (irony) was fine with it. There is no solution because there is no problem.

Now this feminist ideology must be enforced here, on behalf of whomever it is commissioned. It's official here, no joke, proof: German Foreign Minister Baerbock, the one who publicly declared german war on the Russians in the EU Parliament, promised upon taking office to primarily "pursue a feminist foreign policy." This feminist ideology is being elaborately organized with taxpayer money from universities to companies, and e. g. must attach a purely feminine ending to all these unisex words, pronounced with a voiceless click (officially, it should now be spelled through the asterisk, following colon and other drafts in the past).

Unfortunately, we now have entire packs of female professors who are highly paid with taxpayer money to develop these official rules. The Deutsche*innin (doubly feminine for safety's sake, irony) is now less likely to study mechanical engineering. It's a senseless, expensive, destructive plague and functions like the famous ‚Gessler hat‘ in William Tell. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Albrecht_Gessler

Back to the example of the cyclist: Now they name, after our “cyclists” (a term that has long been used for all genders),  were forcibly renamed to she*cyclists (female), they're renaming it again. The term "*cyclist" (original „Radfahrer*innen“; a female cyclists, the asterisk represents a pointed pause to speak, no joke!), which also applies to male cyclists, was renamed then till now to somebody is "now riding on the bike" which is logically incorrect. Because if the so called „female cyclist“, it also applies to male cyclists, e. g. has dismounted, he's still a „female cyclist“, but then not really a so called "cyclist now riding on the bike", but perhaps a limping cyclist carrying his broken bike after a fall.

So, a cyclist who walks with a limp, it is a cyclist who no longer rides, but not a „female riding on the bike, found dead“, as the police officer would have to write down („Radfahrende tot aufgefunden“) for politically correct reasons, when he would find him dead at the street paving. What a mess!

Anoher example: „Students“ were forcibly renamed to "somebody is studying". In German, 'students' refers to people with their specific activity (they study most of the day), while the new prescribed term 'Studierende' refers to the activity these people are currently doing. The latter term is now official, but incorrect! Because a student remains a student, even when they are asleep. All that  'Studierende' (‚she, he, they is/are now learning‘) cannot study when they are asleep. However, feminists force it to use this (incorrectly). Years ago, the student association had to change its name to "Studierende-Vereinigung" (from "Students": Student association to the false "studying" association). I cannot justify the effort involved, unless it is malicious. Just think about all the student dormitories, with the nameplates on top of the buildings …

This precision, often typical of the German language, is often absent in English, which should not be a reason to enforce it in German as well. Germans are foreign-ashamed of Negro slavery (‚Neger‘, ‚Mohr‘ is forbidden, the real reason for this is the very different word ‚nigger‘ – but ‚nigger‘ is allowed here because of music culture).

I provide a current example of "feminist logic" in the text of this English version of the chapter. It concerns 'scientists' allegedly expelled by Trump? I don’nt know. Many "experts" who were fired in the US (innocent they say) are now supposedly enriching us in Germany, our mass media is currently cheering. It should be easy to guess what kind of 'scientists' they might be. Hint: They're not rocket scientists.

https://sites.google.com/view/workshop-feministlogic/

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8. Always nice: Watching TV together

Tuesday (66 centimeters)

When Katrin came home from work, she called to him from the hallway coat rack, quite excited: "Turn on the TV! Hurry! Record it! A colleague told me earlier that they're doing an interview with Seppelmeier. They've found him again. He'd been missing for over half a year. You know, that macho guy from Augsburg, you know him from the Christmas party. It's on ZDF, it's called feminine-TV or something like that, 7:30 p.m., it's almost time!"

He obeyed her, but reluctantly. He heard her slam her handbag down in the hallway and hastily undress. In moderate haste, he tiptoed to the dining table and grabbed the remote control lying there with both hands.

He left the TV off during the day when he was alone. He didn't want to watch the TV anymore. Another shrinking show, he thought. She actually seems to be really enjoying watching this crap now: "Why do you want to watch this? I think you hate that guy?" She replied: "Go on, I'll be right there!"

He had just found the ZDF channel when he heard her running up from behind: "umm umm umm..." and was thrown into the air, shock and pain: "Ouch, my ribs!"

She walked backwards to the couch with him in front of her stomach, then, as always when watching TV, took him on her lap.

She had already hastily taken off her business maxi skirt (that ‚Satin High Waist Slit Pencil Long Skirt‘ and her tights, she'd been sweating all day), thrown it onto the dresser in the hallway, and was wearing only a blouse, bra, panties, and cork sandals.

He involuntarily squirmed in her grip; it was uncomfortable, he wanted to get off her thighs: It was all too stupid for him, the pain in his ribs, the disgusting show, Katrin's change – she'd been clinging to him lately: Like a little brat, she dragged him around, pressed to her breast, even in bed at night. Until she fell asleep, then he could escape. For an unknown amount of time, until she grabbed him again... He slept badly, like this.

"Stay here!" she growled at him, gripping him tighter, pulling him back under her breasts: "You used to like watching that too. Be quiet, I want to hear what that man is saying." Katrin happily sang the line from the song, known from "Venus and Mars": "So won't you listen to what the man said?" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YxslbXDBmaY

Paul couldn't press the record button anymore: "My ribs are hurting again, because of you. Didn't you want to record that? But why? Oh, look: What did you say? Hear what the man was saying? That man there, he's not a man, he is only 13 cm tall, maximum, well, let him be 14, at most..."

She: "Shh, quiet! Well, 'Man,' not really a 'man‘, you're right. But isn't that hot? Of all people, that womanizer [orig. „Schürzenjäger“ is engl. an „Apron hunter“] Seppelmeier. It really got the right guy. And now every one of them, all the female colleagues he used to sexually harass with his cheap come-ons and staring, can just tuck this former womanizer [„Apron hunter“] away under their aprons... and the womanizer [„Apron hunter“] Seppelmeier is gone, vanished without a trace, hehe... I'm laughing my head off!“

And than, calm again: „Seppelmeier was pretty lucky that the came out again, there. He didn't deserve it at all. They could have just put him away as far as I was concerned. After that, no one would have cared anymore.

Do you know, no, I haven't told you yet, that he followed me too? For a while. It was so disgusting."

Paul tried again to escape her grip, but it was no longer possible. With one hand on his stomach and the other on his forehead, she pressed him against her. Above his head, when she let go, all he could see were her breasts, round and perky, barely visible her beautiful chin. In front of him was the TV. If he moved, her reflex was immediate: she pressed him briefly and forcefully into her taut stomach; when he was quiet, she let go a little more.

First, a short film about the situation in the country was shown. These days, there weren't just women's shelters as has been the case for decades; now men's shelters were needed to protect against female violence.

The studio guest was shown in such a shelter, the dwarf with the Zorro mask was briefly introduced as 'Mister X,' and then, the audience applauded, for whatever reason, the camera panned onto the stage: the well-known star presenter in jeans and a striped sweater on a tubular steel chair, in front of her a 1960s kidney-shaped table, on which, mirrored, a miniature version of her, a dwarf, also but in a tiny tubular steel chair, wearing tiny jeans and a lumberjack shirt.

The woman interviewed the little dwarf very sympathetically. After the usual preamble, "...how is he...?" Weather, and so on, she got to the point: "Mister X, as you said, you were attacked and kidnapped by a criminal organization. Would you mind gladly [orig. “gerne” = gladly, a newfangled superfluous phrase here] telling us gladly what happened to you, Mister X, what kind of problem did you have?"

"Well, I don't want to describe it 'gladly,' because it's no fun for me... but it has to be done. We have to do something about it. What can I say? Being attacked on the street at night and kidnapped by those women [orig. „Weibern“, the the correct German term for female people, analogous to "Männern" for male people, but fiercely contested in the ‘woke’ discussion because of the allegedly more than 60 genders], like they always do..."

She interrupted him kindly: "Please, feel free to say gladly 'women.' [orig. „Frauen“, the the correct German term for supremacy female people, analogous to "Herren" for supremacy male people]. We agreed during the preliminary discussion that you wouldn't gladly want to use the w-word [for „Weiber“], didn't we?" He looked up at her now, with his black Zorro mask on, thoughtful: "I don't like saying 'women' to such devils in female form." Then she agreed: "Okay, I'll just say 'W-dot' today, but not 'Frauen'. But only for today's show.

So, that was a bunch of 'W-dot', they made millions off me, those wei..., those 'W-dot's... they were only interested in making euros. And other 'W-dot's then paid for me, one after the other, in turn, with a schedule, always paying nicely for me."

"I would also like to tell our she*viewers gladly that our studio guest will gladly donate all the proceeds he receives for this visit to the Association for the Search for Kidnapped Men" and she nodded at him friendly, the audience applauded politely.

"Yes, you're right about that 'gladly,' I 'gladly' do that. Because I want the unfortunate men to be searched for and freed like I did." The dwarf looked briefly at the audience, then back at the tabletop with disgust. "Mostly ‚Weiber‘" he thought.

"And now they're housed with changed identities?" He, very sad: "Yes, and I'm grateful. Very few of us are as lucky as I am."

She followed up: "Are you happy now?"

He hesitated: "I wouldn't put it that way... But... I'd say 'happier,' in the sense of less unhappy. If you only knew what I've been through... I'm already happy, somehow, yes. But I keep thinking about it! You know, the whole thing. I dream about it every night and I sweat. I'm always tired. That's why it is, that's why, the psychologist says. So I wouldn't call it 'happy,'"

She paraphrased him: "...through? What did you go through? Our she*viewers would certainly gladly like to know how it feels from your perspective, to be sold for sex?"

Her constant grin annoyed him, so he was reluctant to look at her, mostly looking at the table in front of him, even when he was talking to her. He didn't like that fat woman with the huge tits. He felt like a baby chick sitting opposite a bullfrog. The nerve: ‚What have you been through?‘ Disgusting hypocrite. She knows that perfectly well! He knew this type of ‚Weib‘ only too well.

Suddenly, he stood up angrily, looked up at her face, and hurled an indignant slur at her: "As a woman, you should know what they did to me! Such hypocrisy from you ‚Weibern‘!" and sat back down, staring at the table.

She leaned back indignantly, crossed her arms (incompletely; because of her very ample breasts and belly, she could only interlace her fingers), and begged him: "Please remain gladly objective. Thank you very much."

And she tried again: "So you fell into the clutches of one of those gangs of W-dot-*Innen, as you liked gladly to tell me in the preliminary interview, and were then sold?"

He, now sad again: "No, not sold, rented out."

She grinned at him professionally again: "And didn't the women treat you well?" Then she became serious: "Please say 'women,' our women here don't want to hear the w-word anymore."

He ignored her superfluous (as he thought to himself, and he thought: That ‚Weib‘ is exactly like these other ‚Weiber‘ were! He was now certain of it!) nonsense about language regulations: "Yes, they did make sure, I mean those ‚W-dot‘s, that I stayed reasonably fit. But they didn't treat me well at all, if you ask me like that: Above all, what they called sex was a daily abuse for me. And they wanted to have a lot of sex with me. Those many ‚W-dot‘s had paid for it."

He seemed tormented by memories, but then composed himself: "I've often thought: every slave in ancient Rome was better off than me."

She fluted her words: "Yes, our she*viewers gladly can certainly understand that. And that you gladly like to be a bit emotional, gladly like to exaggerate a bit, our she*viewers gladly can certainly understand that too."

She spoke professionally, pausing briefly at the points where the standard gender star was used. She mastered "speaking with a gap", the gender-inclusive style of speech now common in Germany, not among the people, but on TV. When using originally gender-neutral words, she was instructed to gender-translate the word "feminine" to indicate gender diversity: "Men, women, transgender, intersex, nonbinary people, all in one word, all of us together", that's what her broadcaster wants. And that's what her contract said.

She thought the dwarf was also talking nonsense. She couldn't let him get away with it, she thought, "in front of all the she*spectators": "Mister X, forgive me for saying that: You just said that you envied those slaves*she‘s in ancient Rome. But that can't be true, I don't believe you. You couldn't seriously have wanted to trade places with the slaves*she‘s who were fed to the lions in Rome, could you?" He grumbled: "At least they were only eaten once..." And that was the end of the matter for him. He simply found this woman repulsive.

She leaned forward, interested, over him; he stood up and stepped back: "Please, explain gladly to our audience what you meant by that. Have you been 'eaten' [‚gefressen‘] multiple times, as you say? Please use the word 'eaten' [‚gegessen‘]!“ [In German, in contrast to English, a distinction is made between the "eating" of animals and the "eating" of humans, also drinking. But the zeitgeist is now turning this around because animals should not be insulted.]

She continued: „My cat at home eats [‚isst‘] mice too; only old white men eat [‚frisst‘] these days. And a man drinks [‚säuft‘]. But my cat drinks [‚trinkt‘]. Old white men drink [‚saufen‘]." The audience cheered.

He was silent and thought: This all comes from America. The Americans don't know the difference between the term 'eating' for animals „fressen“ and the term 'eating‘ for people, „essen“ - which is what humans do.

And now we're supposed to adopt that too, like all this woke nonsense of terminology confusion through this 'gendering' from America. And be ashamed of their slavery history, of the N-word 'nigger,' which they used? There were no black slaves in Germany, but German sailors were enslaved by the black men and Arabs in history.

"You can gladly go into more detail. In our sexually enlightened world, that shouldn't be a problem; our station has already broadcast much, much more sensitive material gladly on this subject."

With his head bowed, he chuckled quietly: "You mean pornography?"

"No, please!" she snapped at him, and he countered squeakily: "But 'gladly‘, hehehe..." She, again acting serious: "We are a professional broadcaster, with a public educational mandate in the Federal Republic of Germany. And if you're already saying 'pornography,' I have my doubts as to whether we both understand the same thing by it. There are certainly culturally valuable erotic works of art made specifically for women today, which you may also vilify as pornography? I'd like gladly to ask you gladly to reconsider, okay? The Humboldt University of Berlin found that power structures determine whether feminist pornography is good and allowed, or is not. https://genderblog.hu-berlin.de/feminismus-und-porn-studies/

Our she*viewers have heard by now that your choice of words is, let's say euphemistically, rather 'right-wing.' We have the sexual revolution behind us, fighting for the liberation of she*women and all these diverse, transgender genders against the right enemy. The old term pornography used by right-wing societies no longer applies; please also consider the misuse of the German language during National Socialism. You don't want those days of language regulations, with all these terrible linguistic conformities („Gleichschaltungen“) imposed by the overreaching state back, do you?"

So, please repeat my friendly question: What did you experience as a so-called 'lust dwarf' in what you called the 'women's gang,' as you said, under duress?" – He corrected her: "I said „Weiber“ gang" – she graciously ignored his remark.

He sighed: "I'm in therapy of some sort, but it's not enough. And, as I said, I'm grateful that I'm at least accommodated, incognito, without unwanted female visitors in my room, without worries, with room and board, without pocket money, which is also OK."

Little Seppelmeier in the mask, his hands awkwardly tucked between his legs, hunched over, squeaked softly into his micro-microphone, barely audible: "I don't know if I can just tell you about it. My psychologist says they're flashbacks... I don't like it. I don't 'gladly' doing it as much as you always say, I don't 'gladly' talking about it..."

The star presenter reassured him: "Look gladly to your right. That lady over there, gladly waving to us, that's our psychologist at the station, she would gladly intervene immediately if anything got out of hand with us. You're in the best hands here, in the gentle hands of women, right, Doctor Schrödinger?"

He glanced briefly at the doctor and then lowered his gaze again: "Well, 'delicate woman's hands'. I don't know. I experienced it completely differently..."

After a brief pause, he continued: "What I would say..., what's important..., I want to say..., well, what was the worst, is, was..."

He pulled himself together and said: "...is this..., being inserted into the vagina!"

She nodded at him professionally, her face sad: "Yes. I understand. That must have been terrible for you. And what else, what else did these criminals do to you?"

He ignored her, or at least tried to. Resentment was rising within him again. He couldn't resist saying to her: "Not 'those male ‚criminals' as you put it – they were ‚Wei...‘ …. er …, your 'women' were these. If you're using gender, then please use she*criminal too, ‚gladly‘ use the standard female She*criminal gender style!"

He avoided looking at the star presenter, looked down at his tiny plastic slippers, and he reminded her of what she had said: "Abused by—as you called it—'delicate female hands'...?!"

After a pause, he continued: "My God, how many? So many cunts..." She interrupted brusquely: "Just say 'vaginas'!"

He continued: "Uhh... vaginas, uh... OK, holes, I had to get to know them, from the inside, that's important. Yes... so... That was the worst. Different every time, and you never know when it starts, what she's going to do with you. And you never know how long she'll lock you up inside, keeping her hole closed from the outside, with 'delicate woman's hands.' You can't get out if she wants you in there because she paid for it; sometimes she tells you beforehand for how long. It wasn't about me being scared to death, my psychologist says, it was more about this destructive feeling of being so totally helpless, my psychologist says that too. I'd get over a lot of things, she says, but I'd have to work on this trauma of helplessness for many years to come. She says." The director switched camera 3 to Dr. Schrödinger, who nods vigorously into the frame, grinning professionally crookedly.

Our dwarf Seppelmeier now approached the star presenter with increasing aggression and squeaked: "It could be that you're not that kind of woman! But it could also be that you're that kind of woman too! There are all kinds, this and that! I can't get inside your head. And I don't want to go in there either.

Men have never understood ‚Weiber‘; I never wanted to believe that before. But what I've experienced and can't understand is this sexual violence by these ‚Weiber‘, uh... by these W. plural.

Just like with some men! Just like these pedophile men and sadistic men, these women are primarily concerned with the exercise of power, that's what turns them on. It turns them on that they can do what they can with you, that they're simply allowed to do what they're doing. They hand over all those bills and suddenly they think they can do anything to you. Just like men! No different!

‚Weiber‘, sorry, W.-plural, are people too, just as men are just people. There are assholes here and assholes there, just like with women [‚Frauen‘], just like with the men [‚Herren‘] of creation, assholes everywhere..."

The star presenter, now obviously very annoyed: "Please don't say the W-word again! Please just say 'women' [„Frau“] or if you prefer, say 'she*perpetrators‘!'"

The dwarf's fighting spirit now fully awoke: "Nonsense, you don't call me 'sir' [‚mein Herr‘] either."

She replied with a pained laugh: "Mister X! That's right. Because 'sir' wouldn't really fit, would it? The term 'man' is already difficult for me to use with you, hehehe. You, sitting there below me, in front of me on the little table, address you as 'my gracious sir'?" the latter with a genuine laugh.

He looked at her from below, this giant toad: “You studied journalism, didn’t you?” She interrupted: "And German studies" - "Well, all the better, then you should know about the pairings in German: 'Weiber' belongs to 'Männer' and 'Frauen' belongs to 'Herren'. That comes from the castle lady [Frau] and castle lord [Herr]; normal people were women [Weiber] and men [Männer]. If you call me 'Mann', then it's also legitimate for me to call you 'Weib'. Or they call me 'Herr', the natural antagonist of the protagonist 'Frau'. Quite simply: 'Weib' – equivalent to 'Mann'.

She grumbled: "But hardly anyone knows that anymore. Besides, again, 'Mann' doesn't really fit with you either. Because real men typically rape thousands of women, thousands of times every day all over the world! You know what I mean, you're out of it, you're now above all suspicion." she chuckled. "...'Man' doesn't fit, 'Sir' doesn't fit either. This plague with the 27/XT and Putin has changed so much in our world, including and especially the meaning of terms."

He looked at her thoughtfully after all, and then said: "The thing with the terms, the deliberate confusion of our terms and namings, it wasn't the 27/XT that made them increasingly confusing. It was the... uh, some W-dot-Plural with their invented ideology of supposedly female better people. And according to your definition, think it over, these W-dot-Plural that I was unlucky enough to get to know weren't women, but men?! Because they raped me „thousands of times“ as you say, and legally. According to your say, rape is only made by men? Interesting, I, not a man, but these women, all real men? According to your definition?"

She, looking angrily: "So? You mean? It was us women? Women who confused the terms and all that?"

He: "Yes, I mean. This genderization, that's what the W-dotted-asterisks invented. Women, I mean.

I tell you wat: Section 183, paragraph 1 of the German Criminal Code, however, explicitly states: A man, I repeat A MAN!  who harasses another person through an exhibitionistic act shall be punished with imprisonment for up to one year or a fine.

This law does not apply to women. You know, in my situation, when I look up at you, I always have the same image in my head, cunts. That's what these W-dot-plurals did to me! That it's like this now! And you have to forgive me for having to imagine the image of your pussie. It's a compulsive behavior, an acquired one, my psychologist says, that I see women's pussies everywhere, that's normal, she says, given my past. I see that image of this at you too, it won't go away for me."

She, shocked: "studio director?", leaning to the left, pressing her headset with her left hand, listening, then: "Okay, we'll continue. Now, if it had been up to me... well... let's continue. We're live. I think, pretty brave of you guys in the broadcast management room!"

He, indignant: "You! Now that things are really getting serious, you can't take it anymore? You wanted to know what's going on with me, in detail! So should I? Or shouldn't I? And let me just say "Weiber", because the truth is, they're really nasty wenches!"

She, discouraged: "Not okay, but I understand that. And our she*viewers will be able to understand your, let's say, peculiar way of expressing themselves. Dear she*viewers, you will certainly understand that too, given the sad experiences of our studio guest today", she said into the camera, and then addressed the little dwarf again: "We agreed in the preliminary discussion that you would not spread misogynistic slogans here. Otherwise, we'll break things off with you very quickly! Intelligent as you are, you should understand that! And you will understand that there will be no money for your foundation." - "Association, registered association, registered non-profit organization, not a foundation," he interrupted her.

"Well, I apologize, it seems important to you... Anyway, how did the women, being you such a clever little fellow," she joked, trying to lighten the mood, "to manage to outsmart you?"

So, how did you, as a man who was once quite capable—I've looked at old photos of you, I mean, as a woman I would say..." she clicked her tongue. "Just let yourself be taken down by a few 'W-word,' hehe, weak women? You used to be a pretty successful heavyweight wrestler, you told me?"

He calmly tried to explain it to her: "Perhaps you don't know this because many people today are embarrassed to acknowledge it: Men naturally have a stronger urge to help in times of disaster, and the W-dot exploit this – how annoying the forced use of that W-word is! Yeah, yeah... it's fine, women are the more social gender: Ms. Merkel, refugee she*helpers, I know all that. But..."

She interrupted him: "Is that relevant to the topic?"

He: "Absolutely!" And, she let him continue: "But, an example. When NATO bombed the former Yugoslavia, there were these snipers, Albanians against Serbs and so on. I read that a Muslim man on a roof in the city shot Serbs or vice versa, it doesn't matter.. And he said that these snipers all know: they have to shoot a woman first, then the men come running, because women—I say women," he grinned, "then scream, which is audible by nature, and since men are so simple, because they run—'gladly' as you always say—headlong into danger when a woman calls for help, then the men come in droves to help and he can shoot them all. If this Muslim would had shot a man first, the women would have just run away screaming. And then there was nothing left to shoot at." She interrupted him again, looking at him seriously: "What do you mean by that?"

"Well, it's quite simple. I'm a man and I'm driving along the country road at night. I'd been working late at the institute again, I'm a bachelor—I didn't have to finish work on time, and some W., you understand? from the institute must have called to let them know that I'd left. Always the same way home. It was a pre-arranged trap.

And if, as a man, you see a delivery truck parked in front of you, past the warning triangle on the road at night, far from the nearest village, with a woman apparently run over on the asphalt, her bicycle smashed, the presumably driver of the delivery truck leaning over the bleeding woman to help her, you don't just drive on.

You'd allow a woman to simply call the police and drive on, not get involved, because first aid was already there. Women alone in the woods at night... you know.

And she with the jam on her face! I totally believed it and turned her into the recovery position. But I snapped at this other cow, I mean the presumably driver of the delivery truck, who I thought was hysterical and who I also found totally genuine, to stop crying, pull herself together, and finally call the police, whereupon she disappeared; I thought it was all harmless. For me.

As I listened for her breathing, over which I found attractive girl bent over, listening intently, I was suddenly attacked from behind, completely unexpectedly. I felt, as you usually express yourselves, 'delicate woman's hands.' At first I thought it was that hysterical cow! But there was more than one. It could be that she was there, with those furies...

But there were more and more of your so-called 'delicate woman's hands,' grabbing me on all sorts of body parts, lying on me. I think the last thing I noticed was ether, it stung my nose...

Then, waking up again, I had this bag on my head, I must have been in this van, which was driving with me, cable ties and so on. Hard vehicle floor, cornering, endless, many stops at traffic lights or barriers, I don't know, and always just women's voices, only short commands. I was gagged, afraid of vomiting, the ether. Two, three, four, five of your 'delicate woman's hands' always on me, just telling me to shut up – something like that. That was basically it."

The star presenter seemed to take an interest: "That's really bad. Was that all there was, wasn't it?" and looked at him with a lust for sensation.

But he continued to rant: "Women are insidious. In a way, that's logical. If I, as a wife, wanted to kill my husband because he's no longer as good in bed as the young house friend, then I wouldn't challenge the husband to be murdered to a fair boxing match to kill him off, then wipe the blood off this husband afterward. Saw the corpse into pieces and do all those tedious tasks that are difficult for a woman.

Better poison, a funeral home, a widow's pension. It's much more elegant, isn't it? Do you understand that? I would, for example, and that's exactly how women murder, put his dose of poison in his food every day and then hypocritically care for and pity him. That's how I would do it, and that's how women are too. It's all nature.

Like any person who has an evil plan, women can be very evil too, but just different than Men. The violence is underhanded, calculating, not spontaneously violent, otherwise they'd be stupid.

A loudspeaker "offstage": "We're stopping. For Mister X's sake. We should be considerate of him. We know what he's been through. He can't go on. Doctor Schrödinger, please."

The star presenter concluded with a few trivialities, like how it was a shame, and so on, then applause, credits, and the regional news.

In the news, the population was informed about the plans for a new language ban. In addition to Negro and other words whose use has been considered criminal for years (racism, incitement to hatred), such as the N-word (Negro, not the US-‚Nigga‘-word for US-slaves what is still useful in the rap scene), G-word (Gypsies), I-word (Indians), M-word (Moors), E-word (Eskimo), the use of the word “Islamism” could now also become dangerous.

The dark-skinned german news anchor continued reading: „The Jusos in Berlin, the youth organization of the SPD, decided at their state delegate conference on April 5 and 6, 2025, to no longer use the term "Islamism." Instead, they will refer to "religiously motivated" or "Islamic extremism." The reason is: The linguistic proximity to Islam could stigmatize Muslims across the board, according to the justification in the official resolution. According to the Jusos (Young Socialists), the term is also being used to justify "racist laws."
Requests to speak at the delegate conference were strictly based on gender categories. As soon as there were no more women on the list of their delegate conference, the debate ended. Only in exceptional cases were cisgender men allowed to take their place – decided by a separate "FINTA" delegation.“
The Social Democratic Party of Germany (SPD) has been continuously part of the government in Berlin since reunification and was the party that has governed (co-governed) West Berlin for the longest time since the end of the war, while the Socialist Unity Party of Germany (SED) was in power in East Berlin.

The news anchor read on and came to the next topic: „The Ruhr University Bochum will hold a Workshop on Feminist Logic in August 29–30, 2025 with the following following foreign experts: Roy T. Cook (University of Minnesota U.S.), Maureen Eckert (UMass Dartmouth U.S.), Viviane Fairbank (University of St Andrews UK), Becca Kosten (University of Minnesota U.S.), Franci Mangraviti (University of Padova Italy), Gillian Russell (Australian National University), Sara L. Uckelman (Durham University UK). Feminist Logic is a relatively new but upcoming area of study.“ the news anchor explained and continued: „Work in this field sheds light on sexist (and other) biases in the area of logic. It captures the diversity of the area of Feminist Logic. More specifically, Feminist Logic can mean to use logical tools for feminist ends, e.g., to uncover biases in arguments or to model social hierarchies to make patriarchal structures explicit, and to devise, revise and/or argue for logical systems from a distinctly feminist perspective, e.g., certain logical systems may seem better or worse suited for formalizing feminist arguments. This workshop aims at sharing and discussing the latest research in this area by bringing together both highly distinguished as well as early career researchers.“

Katrin turned off the TV, Paul still on her lap. She opened her legs, he sank between her thighs, and she clamped him in, after pulling him deep into her crotch, thrusting her pelvis forward. She then pulled his upper body under her breasts as well. As she often did after watching something arousing with him on TV, she cuddled with him briefly.

Paul was suspicious. And, sure enough: there it was, her right hand, he felt it moving behind his tailbone. Her left hand was still in his lap. Behind him, he could feel her right hand rising, opening buttons, unclipping her bra, unfastening the front clasp, then exposing her breasts on the left and right, then lowering her hand to caress herself between her legs. Then he smelled it again...

She took her left hand from his lap, grabbed his small face with it, turned his head into her open blouse, her pink nipple close above him: "... caress me, please be sweet," and he obediently rubbed her nipple through her blouse. She took his hand and guided it into her blouse. He already knew it wouldn't stop there...

And a short time later, she stood up, grinning with him trapped between their thighs, turned around, took him out, and laid him on the couch. It was quiet.

She stood in front of him, looking down at him with that mask-like, light smile, as always when she was certain of the pleasures she was about to experience with him, right now.

Slowly, almost with relish, she unbuttoned her blouse, button by button. He saw her bra hanging on both sides, her breasts exposed, full and round.

Grinning at him with a strangely fixed grin, her head tilted teasingly, she finally threw off her blouse, then her bra, both backwards, without looking, her gaze fixed on him. Then her two thumbs into her panties, down with them, all the way to the floor.

And then, bending over again, her breasts above him, one hand resting on the arm of the sofa, always above him, never taking her eyes off him, she stepped out of the panties lying on the floor with one foot, then the other.

Now he could smell it clearly, smell her stench.

"Shower first?" he asked timidly. She: "Just think of Casanova and the good old cheese from Venice..." and laughed.

Like that? He thought at the sight of her and the smell. No, he didn't want it like that! He had once told her he'd read in Casanova's memoirs that a woman should smell strong, comparable to a fine, overripe Venetian cheese.

She noticed his reluctance and, to tease him, placed her right foot on the couch behind him, on her tiptoes, opening her pussy wide, provocatively; she'd been enjoying that sort of thing lately.

When he looked up, he saw her three fingertips stroking her vulva from behind. Soft smacking in the silence...

For the first time, he tried to escape her waiting pussy even before they'd begun their game. She really did smell of fish, at the end of her workday.

He crawled like a crab, nimble, looking upwards, finally slid off the couch, but she caught him by the upper arm, laughing cheerfully: "You stay here, don't you dare. I'm in the mood right now, hehehe..." and roughly pulled him back up with one hand, where she then laid him backward on the sofa, staring at him intently, horny.

All of this with ease and calm, without even having to take her right foot off the couch. So he had to keep looking into her cunt, as he lay there on his back, all he could do was close his eyes to avoid it. No, he didn't have to, he thought, I won't do her that favor. Things are getting more and more intense with her, and lowered his gaze, defiantly raising his head, chin on his chest. More protest was not possible.

She approached him, tilted her upper body, adjusted him for her with her left hand, held him down, and pushed his little head back onto the couch: "What is it? Am I no longer beautiful?"

Her face, her breasts, above him, yes, she was beautiful, he thought. She knelt on the edge of the sofa, caressing him, but then straightened up again, standing with her legs spread over him. He saw her knees spread again, hesitated again to look up, but then his gaze wandered upward, up her smooth, round, beautifully plump thighs...

He saw a thin thread of mucus hanging from her cunt, slowly growing longer.

She followed his suddenly frozen gaze: "Oh...", reached into her folds, looked back at Paul, and and spread the mucus in her crotch carefully with her left hand without even looking, because she was staring at him like that again, another slight smile on her frozen face, lustful...

As she lowered herself onto him, her cunt coming ever closer, this slimy creature close above him reminded him for the first time of a snail, a slimy, primordial, ugly, furrowed, lobed, large pink mollusk.

9. Door-Wrestling [untranslatable German pun]

Friday (55 centimeters)

Katrin was gone. She had driven to the shopping center in her SUV.

Paul could no longer reach the doorknobs. Not even by hopping. So he had attached strings to the ends of the door handles. Katrin had allowed him to do this on the toilet doorknobs and the living room doorknobs. She had provided him with materials and a pair of blunt children's scissors. She hadn't let him use knives for a long time. He could hurt himself, especially since he was depressed so often these days, she said.

So he grabbed the dangling end in the living room, pulled on it, and got into the hallway. This had been working every day for a while. He could still go to the toilet from the living room on his own. Go somewhere else? Difficult.

When he got to the bathroom, he first awkwardly lifted the toilet lid.

The toilet lid! How to deal with it was already a point of contention between the two when he was still big: Katrin always wanted the lid closed. He: open. She had gotten her way.

Although he thought: If he had to open the lid again before using the toilet because she wanted it that way, i.e. because she insisted on his extra effort – which was pointless to him – then surely he too would have the right to demand that she, for his sake, close the lid for him whenever she wanted it closed?

But he loved his Katrin and didn't want to annoy her unnecessarily. So he opened the lid – and then closed it again for her, only for her.

Secondly, Katrin had trained her husband to be a sit-down pee-er, something millions of partners in Germany are proud to have achieved.

Back when he was big, he had to sit on the toilet seat, like a woman, to urinate. This had been the case ever since he started living with Katrin. He feared her mood swings and behaved himself. She wouldn't miss the small drops; the risk was too high. So, what the heck, he thought, and peed sitting down, like her and like a woman.

At least, at home, sitting down. When they went dancing, he stood at the urinal, like the other men there.

Although it was now law in Germany to build additional restrooms specifically for the third sex, their toilets weren't large enough for the ladies, or rather, the capacity. The women found the latter insufficient for their peeing frequency, especially at their dance club.

Statistically, women in Germany are disproportionately affected by the problem of "alcoholism." They 'drink' [ ‚saufen‘] more than men and consequently become alcoholics more often than men; that's a fact. They are more likely than men to be "alcohol-diseased," as it is called today. In Germany, there are more female drinkers than male drinkers.

The politically correct term, by the way, is 'drinking' That's unfortunately just as wrong, idiotic, as all the rest of the linguistic nonsense of 'gendering.' Quite simply: because an she-alcoholic dying of thirst (PC 'drinking') was no longer drinking, she was the exact opposite of a 'drinking', because she was dying of thirst, dead, will never drinking again!

But then, dead, the dying alcoholic would soon become a rotting alcoholic, incapable of being a 'drinker' again. The feminists destroyed the precise German language. Quod erat demonstrandum.

At the demand of the feminist lobby, the requirement for larger women's restrooms was to be enshrined in building regulations, but that wasn't so easy; women's urinals cost resources. Bricklayers, plumbers,... Old white men were scarce and expensive even before the shrinking catastrophe.

In the disco shed where Paul and Katrin were regulars, the women coped with their high urine output long before the shrinking problem by queuing behind the men urinating at the urinals, heading for the men's restrooms, which, as women, they naturally used first, since they were disadvantaged by the women's restroom being of equal size.

Women traditionally formed a second queue in the men's restroom, in addition to the first queue for their women's restroom. They rarely glanced over his shoulder because he was so tall, but he did get furtive glances from the side, even witty remarks from the disco ladies behind him, which he had had to listen to while peeing.

The problem, which Paul didn't understand but Katrin did (as she said), was that while the women were of course allowed to look over the men's shoulders while they were peeing, they were in the men's restroom. But that men were thrown out of their women's restrooms by women, and reported to the police, even if they claimed to be women.

Which, another contradiction! Paul thought it was the law in Germany that it was enough for a man to declare himself a woman in order to then be one. According to the German Civil Code, it is well known that anyone who dares to address this self-proclaimed woman as a man is punishable by heavy fines, even if he/she/it look like a man, for example, if he/she/it appear unshaven with a stubble beard and speak like a man.

Women are allowed to do anything? he had provoked her. Yes, she said, women pee standing up these days, too, with the help of a small feminine tool in their handbags, the ‚Urinella‘. So the urinal in the men's restroom is also for women.

He didn't understand any of that. Only he, he should sit down?

But he was a modern man. No problem for him to adapt to the zeitgeist.

Paul was now allowed to pee standing up again; just like women like to pee standing up with a urinal, he was now allowed to pee standing up again. She had allowed him to do it again, standing up, on the toilet seat. And warned him to be careful: He could fall in. And he should clean up immediately if something went wrong, on the seat or worse.

Peeing while sitting down didn't work, really didn't. She had to accept that after giving him the time to take a look at his problem: While sitting down, he tried unsuccessfully to stuff his penis back between his thighs, behind the rim of the toilet seat, downwards. It didn't work.

It simply didn't work. 'His' wasn't that long after all. In fact, it 'wasn't' long enough for it to work. Katrin had to agree, too, after examining the situation, especially the proportions.

Unfortunately, during this technical experiment, some of his yellow fluid got onto the rim of the toilet seat. That's not possible!!! his Katrin scolded him. Not like that!

From that day on, he was once again a proud pee-er standing up.

So Paul quickly climbed onto the toilet seat with pull-ups, taking off his pants first, sat down, carefully rocking backward, and, bending far forward, began to shit over the inside edge of the seat.

Toilet paper was ready in the plush cover of the lid; he had made sure of that beforehand.

And now he thought about it. It was going quite well when he was shitting: Why is she still mad at me? She left without saying goodbye. In a bad mood again...

And she had three orgasms last night?! The absolute record, three in one night! He hadn't even managed that in their early days. And now, with his height of only a good half meter, he could still satisfy her, three times in a row!

He? Satisfy her? He groaned at the thought. No, not him! She! She, herself!

She masturbated; he just had to be there, so to speak. Those weren't pleasant thoughts; the realization was unpleasant, to say the least.

Lately, she was having sex with herself, but with him: Her hands transported him all over her body, wherever she wanted him at that very moment, and commanded him quietly... sometimes more loudly if he was clumsy.

That's how it had always been lately. Because that's how she always wanted it. Exactly. He no longer had any say in the matter.

She did tell him, verbally and nonverbally, if and when and how he should participate. But he no longer had any say at all in 'his' house, especially during sex. Nothing! Niente! Nitschewo. Sex was about her pleasure. About hers. Only her pleasure! He should admit that to himself, he thought.

Paul's memories of the hours of last night came flooding back. And that was too much for him now. He tried to think of something else. He finished his business, stood up shakily, …

… trying to distract himself: I have to think of something about the flush, it won't work any more soon, I can barely push it hard enough now… A handyman's job…? And the toilet brush? What will happen to brushing away shit in the future…?

Thinking of something else to distract himself? Easy to say. Last night had been brutal, for him. But for her: "Niiiiice…"

His fists clenched, his teeth gritted, reaching the living room, he involuntarily began pacing back and forth. Forty-three steps there – back, forty-one steps back, then forty-two steps there again… To calm himself down, he counted aloud, finally yelled the numbers, panting as he marched across the laminate floor.

He was getting hot. Because of the movement? That was also part of it, yes. But above all, it was the memory of last night, in bed with Katrin: After the second time, he'd thought he couldn't take it anymore, physically. Mentally, too; he was close to tears: so helpless in her hands!

But she'd even managed the third time! One after the other, not allowing him a break!

If she was having fun with their sex, she didn't allow him any more rest.

At the end of the almost two hours, he thought he was no longer up to it! Would it be like this all the time?

He corrected himself: Okay, not the whole time. He could handle her 'foreplay' by now. He knew what she was doing to him... She always got herself in the mood first. He always had to be between her legs right at the beginning. And he helped with that, too. She would then give him a quiet command, correcting him: "More on top, yes, that's goooood..."

And he saw her hands wandering over her huge, perfectly beautiful body. He saw her hands caressing her nipples, then they came back down there, to stroke her thighs again, to guide his little hands and his little tongue...

Aside from his little fingers, he could only pleasure her with his little mouth. His penis didn't even give him pleasure anymore.

He bravely endured her first orgasm yesterday. Without even coming.

He hadn't enjoyed these procedures for a long time, not since the first time she had used him so roughly, against his will, and quite painfully for him. That wasn't sex anymore, by his definition. He was horrified by the whole thing. No longer feeling any desire for her...

Yes, back then, he still had sex. Always climaxed. Back then, after ejaculating, full of endearing hormones, he would have simply turned over and fallen asleep almost immediately. Of course, he gave her a little tenderness beforehand. Afterwards, caresses as thanks, of course, he wasn't a brat. But now he just had to go along with it, knowing exactly what would happen to him once she took him. He endured it, did what she wanted.

But then, when she got going, all he had to do was hold on. It was hard to bear how and what she 'devoured' him, until she finally came, eventually. And recently, immediately the whole thing all over again, twice yesterday...!?

So far, apart from a few painful experiences, he had been able to tolerate what she did to him without complaint. But this time everything was different, brutal, somehow unkind; he felt like he was in the clutches of a predator between her overpowering fingers.

He felt as if he were buried alive between her pressing thighs, his face in her vulva... often suffocating.

He panicked, last night. By her third orgasm at the latest.

He hadn't come again; he had completely different worries now, serious worries: He was afraid she would hurt him. He was in pain.

Yes, she was doing it alone, he wasn't there, she had used his body, but his soul hadn't been there.

Aside from the truly repulsive smells, those disgusting smacking noises, and the terribly massive flesh around him, the worst thing was her mockery!

His feelings were dominated by the horror of her unrestraint. He finally just wanted her to finish. So she'd give him some peace.

If she wanted to, then he had to? Always like this from now on? Whether he wanted it or not? Oh man...! I have to talk to her about this...

He had never thought that one day he wouldn't feel pleasure with this perfect woman's body! And that she would still indulge her lust, regardless of his pleas for a break.

Yesterday, he had begged quietly at first. And then he begged her louder, louder and louder, finally she was enjoying his shrill screams, to please stop! She told him, that it wouldn't do him any good, that only she could hear him, and that it would turn her on, that he couldn't ruin her session anymore. He had to endure it until she was finished. And: That's exactly how he wanted it, wasn't it? He found her mockery unbearable.

He was embarrassed. He was no longer ashamed of his lost dignity, of having to beg her to stop from below, from her slimy crotch, pressed into it by her. He felt only fear and called for help whenever he could, desperately and uselessly.  Absurd, she thought, she didn't want to help him, she was helping herself with her pleasure. He was alone with her. So who did he call for help?

When she pressed her powerful thighs together around him, he was hidden from the world, belonging to her alone, her pussy dripping with pleasure.

She liked his small, unsuccessful attempts to free himself from the grip of her hot flesh. She confessed to him that "to walk him well" made her horny. She rubbed the inside of her thighs against him with pleasure.

And he could see it, too, in her cunt when she spread her legs again, sticky, pink folds glistening with wetness and sticky, curly hair all around. Often her fingers in her cunt.

He should look at it; she liked showing herself to him, especially when she was so wet. Look! I'm more potent than you! I want it again! It was she who now insisted on leaving the light on. He, in turn, would have gladly forgone the glimpse deep into her pink slit. He didn't want to have to see what a desperate situation he was in.

Worst of all, as she moaned and gasped, she forced sentences like, "...serves you right, you wanted it this way...I don't care if you want it now, it's so much fun, if only you knew...and you'll get even smaller, I'm looking forward to it...sooo much..."
This house is suffocating me, he thought at these memories: "I need to get out of here, into the fresh air!" Yes! Fresh air, how long had it been since he'd been out in the fresh air?! That would help him calm down. Regardless of the dangers lurking outside: He'd already seen crows cat-chasing in the garden!

He took one of those bamboo tables for their potted plants, dragged it over to the front door, and climbed up with it, up to the handle. Pulled down, no effect! No shaking helped, the door was locked!

No keys on the board. Paul was going hot and cold: she's locking me in?!

He thought about it, then brought the stool back: "Front door closed, cellar door locked, all the windows closed... I can't get out of here!"

Until she returned, he had had plenty of time to calm himself down: Maybe she was just being thoughtless? He'd ask her, he decided.

"Kati, what's going on? You locked me in from the outside today. Where are the house keys? Did I notice a few days ago that you'd emptied the key rack in the hallway... Because of the locksmith? Are you having duplicates made after all, a key ring for your mother?"

Hesitantly, she approached him: "No, Paulchen [one of the two diminutive forms for 'Paul' in German], you should know me, I would never give my mother the house keys."

He looked at her. Something was fishy, he was now certain, and he expressed his suspicion: "Is it because of me? Do you think I'd go get cigarettes or have a beer at the ‚Green Tree‘? Seriously? With my height, suitable for daycare? Do you think I'm that stupid? Anyone who knows me would be horrified at the sight of me. That I can't look at the bar anymore, is unfortunately so, no beer for me. But the neighbors' children would chase me screaming. And you might as well have me proclaimed as a sensation throughout our entire neighborhood so everyone knows that the shrink has got me!"

Katrin stared at him, grinning, but remained silent.

"Will you give me the keys, please? Now, please! Immediately!"

As always, when she got angry, he could see it in her eyes first. And she was angry now, quite obviously. And then, with a piercing look, she snapped at him: "Nope. So you're up to no good?"

He, shocked: "I guessed right. And I, the idiot I am, had already scolded myself for wrongly suspecting you of locking me up on purpose! I'm disappointed in you."

Paul lowered his gaze and said quietly: "You've changed a lot..."

Katrin, now aggressive: "You too! Look at yourself! You dwarf, but still stupid, uncontrolled, and sex-mad! You put yourself in this situation. You were so determined to change, and now you are the way you are. That's why you are the way you are now, because you are the way you are! My trust in your common sense still exists somewhere, but I don't know where that is anymore... hehehe... I'm going to limit your scope of activity a bit. It's also for your protection. You've cluttered the basement so much that even I'm afraid one of your car parts will fall on my head. The other day, the winter tires came crashing down on me as I was trying to pull the deck chair out of the pile down there. How long do you think you'd lie in the basement, under the pile of tires, before I miss you?"

He poisoned back: "You'd miss me in the marital bed at the earliest. You can't live without it anymore! In any case, I wouldn't be allowed to stay down there alone in the basement for too long."

He partially understood her, but the whole thing wasn't entirely plausible: "Why do you lock everything when you go to the office? How am I supposed to get out of here if there's a fire?! Hello! That's a panic lock in the front door! You don't need to lock the deadbolt from the outside as well, that's what the panic lock is for! Even if it's locked from the outside, it can be opened from the inside without a key. So why are you locking the deadbolt from the outside and then taking all those keys with you? Tell me why!"

She fell silent, looked down at him, and then turned away from him, striding into the bathroom.

As she sat on the toilet seat, she considered the situation: He'd figured it out. He now knew she was locking him up. "That's the situation, comrades. Hopeless, but not serious." She smiled as the old joke ran through her mind.

Katrin didn't admit to Paul that she did want to lock him up to prevent him from escaping from her. She unconsciously shook her head as she thought: "...but Paul isn't stupid, not at all. He's top-notch at pattern recognition.

He's seen through me. It won't be long now before he enters the despair phase. It always happens with shrinking men, at some point, sooner for some, later for others. Then these elves just want to run away. They think they understand what kind of martyrdom awaits them. Often, they're not entirely wrong... hehehe …

She had read: Then, in the despair phase, the males just do stupid things until things pass, later. Not all of them, but my Paul, yes, my Paul is sensible, he'll see to it in the end. What choice does he have? Assuming I don't let him escape. And he won't escape me, I'll make sure of that. When he's already infusing me with so much joy down there…"

And all the dams broke for her. She no longer had to hide anything from him. She would intern him without false shame.

She'd blocked him from making phone calls and such things long ago, leaving him no chance. He was trapped, in her trap, and soon she'd have him all inside her... She was getting wet.

Through the vents in the door, he'd heard her pee, then flush. Then, well-behaved, he'd backed away. He hadn't needed to spy on her, and had to grin as he tiptoed into the living room: Other men would envy me for what I see every day and every night...

When she still hadn't come out after a few minutes, he cautiously went back to listen, this time deliberately, like a voyeur. Why not? He thought. What was she doing in there for so long? It was quiet, no, not quite. She moaned softly, then a soft whimper, a deep sigh, later the rumble of the toilet paper roll, then the rustling of her clothes, which she apparently pulled back up. Toilet lid closed.

Had she masturbated? But why? What turned her on so much that she needed that now? On the toilet?!

Sunday (39 cm)

His shrinking would soon stop, he was happy. Thank goodness I bought the 35 cm version!

He was absolutely certain he would stay at 35: Not smaller, absolutely not, out of the question!

He had done everything right: His decision to wait and see what experiences there were with her, with her sex, as a dwarf. And now he had had enough. More than enough. And now it was over for him, fed up. Even 35 cm was too small for him.

Actually, the whole idea of shrinking himself was stupid of him... He should have let a notary know or something, then he'd feel better now. At least that... stupid of him, to think he'd be safe with Katrin. When no one else knew where he was. At her mercy...

Aside from his helplessness in everyday life (eating, drinking, shitting [Fressen, Saufen, Scheißen], he thought with a grin), sex with Kati was already 'exhausting' now; what would it be like with him at the size of a dildo?!

The thought made him shudder.

She had long since taken over, even and especially during sex.

Shrunken down to the size of her vibrator, he would have a terrible time. She had shown him. He had sat between her spread legs, had to watch as she sank that buzzing machine inside her. He would also be growling quite a bit in there, too, she had joked.

He had to watch. She insisted. He should watch, and thereby realize how stupid he was. Even though she had warned him, he had egomaniacally ignored her and secretly taken the 27/XT – her old tune.

Bossily, she gave him a demonstration. He had to admit: Kati had been right, it would be hell for him to be thrust into her hole. Even though it would be extremely pleasurable for her, she told him, he would suffer in her hole.  Or in her holes? She had teased him.

She demonstrated it to him imperiously. He had seen it, how she moaned in front of him with her legs spread; her pleasure was genuine. She looked at him lustfully, when she wasn't rolling her eyes in euphoria. She held him between her knees the whole time by a parcel string, the string provisionally knotted around his neck so he wouldn't shy away from the view. She wanted him to see his stupidity, to finally realize it. She wanted him to repent, to apologize for the damage he had caused.

He hadn't wanted to watch, hence her spontaneous action with the string. After his first attempt to hop off the couch to escape, she had run into the kitchen. She had retrieved the roll from there.

She was back, standing over him in the corner of the room, where he had fled for lack of alternatives, stupid as he was. Where could he possibly run away to? Careless of him, she thought.

Then she had pressed him down with her left foot onto the laminate floor until he was lying on his back. She had squatted over him, naked as she was, tied the string around his neck, ignoring his loud protests of "What's that all about?!" and then carried him, string and roll under her bare breast, into the study, where the scissors were. Snip, leaving the roll and scissor there, she carried him back to the couch.

Back on the living room couch, she placed little Paul between her upright legs, wedged him between her smooth, swelling thighs, deftly tied a loop at the end of the cord, wrapped the loop around her left wrist, then she put a few sofa cushions behind her back. Opening her thighs wide again, she began to stimulate herself with the buzzing thing she had already laid out on the dining table, her favorite vibrator, staring fixedly at Paul. He avoided her gaze.

Even now, at his current size of just under 40 centimeters, her naked, vulgarly presented lower body seemed like an insatiable pink toothless maw. She's an exhibitionist, he thought.

She had vividly shown him what would happen to him if he continued to shrink...

No, luckily he wouldn't have to be her dildo. At least he would be spared that.

Or …? No, he hadn't bought the after shot. Not him...

14. Bed Stories (No. 14!)

Wednesday (25 centimeters)

An hour before midnight, they were lying in the marital bed after a "tryst," as she called her rape of him. Paul was distraught: Not only that she had raped him again. What's more, she was also making fun of him. To call this sexual use of his inferior 25 centimeters a "love game" – what a mockery!

Having long since ceased to be a pleasure for him, she now mocked him for only "whining" during "sex together," as she called it.

Pah! Paul thought, if only he could still "whine"! She usually made it impossible for him to utter anything verbally as she egomaniacally dragged him through her nether regions, guided back and forth by her hands, snuggled into her sticky wetness down there, so that he was agonizingly breathless! While she, in turn, had enough air to moan and mock with pleasure!

There was no longer any talk of togetherness, of "mutual sex"! He only suffered from her lust. And she was getting hornier, hornier every day!

She lay naked on her back. After her orgasm, blissfully relaxed, she pressed him against her bare breast.

Katrin had pulled the covers off her left breast, away from him and away from her breast. She had laid him there naked, positioned him lengthwise flat against her bulging flesh, and asked him: "Please caress me." "Caressing" was what she called the sex massages he had to perform on her naked body.

She had placed one hand flat on him, the other under her head. She wanted to "chill out a bit after having sex." Her eyes closed, she enjoyed his "caressing."

Paul's head was full of confused thoughts and unpleasant, even disgusting images. The fact that she had recently started peeing during orgasm, and not just a few drops, disgusted him too. Everything had become so humiliating for him.

It was her sex, she alone had sex. After she came, she simply let him lie between her legs. She no longer paid him any attention, but fondled her cunt from up there with her hands; he heard the soft smacking sound of her fingering. Powerful, violent fingers with which she now gently stroked her slit, "to relax afterwards," as she said.

He had to listen to it, didn't even want to look anymore: He knew her vulva was dripping, her mucus running down the crack, over her colorless little anus, and onto the sheet.

And she smeared it all over, stroking the inside of her thighs as well. Her fluids glistened on her broad buttocks, right in front of him. The sheet he rested on "afterward" was soaking wet.

"Change of position," she suddenly joked cheerfully, straightened up, looked at him with a smile, grabbed him, and then lifted him off.

Off he went, in her hand, from the soaked sheet, between her high, muscular thighs, he shot up into the air like a rocket, almost making his stomach churn.

As always, she had allowed him a brief rest, in view of her hairy, gaping slit. So now Katrin moved her little Paul again. He was already familiar with this. To the new spot on her naked body that she had desired. And finally, she gave a brief command: "Please caress me." She had placed his little head again on her pink halo around her nipple, standing upright before his eyes, her squat, conical, rough pink nipple.

Although Paul was soaking wet, he wasn't cold. Her body radiated a pleasant warmth. Better that, lying here on her warm, bare chest, he thought. Because between her thighs, it had simply been unbearably hot. His skin glistened all over with the mix of sweat, vaginal mucus, and probably her piss too?

She was somehow right about the military term "change of position," Paul thought, as he stroked her nipple. Fits, he thought. But this, her constant, undisguised glee, was unbearable!

How humiliating for him that she gave the orders and he had to carry them out! But the term "change of position" was apt. Because it was definitely a struggle for him, down there inside her, wedged between her bare crotch, hair, mucus, fingers...

Precisely because he remained passive, had to remain passive, it was so brutal for him down there. No, she wouldn't just let him do what he wanted, down there in her cunt. He would have loved to do it himself, send her to seventh heaven, certainly better than simply being used by her until she came.

But she wanted it that way, she was satisfying herself, he was just there with her. All he could do was be patient until it was finally over, this torture, and her orgasm too. She rolled him around between her legs, making him stiffen, trying to protect his joints. Her strength was brutal; his thighs and fingers could break every bone in his body. Dislocating his shoulder wasn't unlikely, given her ruthlessness when she gasped, "I'm coming."

That was a tough job, on her cunt, Paul thought as he continued rubbing her breast: being mercilessly pounded, rubbed all over her vulva, from top to bottom, abused from her hairy bush to the crack of her ass, pushed back and forth, and rolled all the way down to the inside of her thighs, for many minutes on end—all of that was a struggle for Paul, the opposite of her pleasure. He struggled to even get through the whole thing without suffering serious injuries.

She hadn't inflicted any physical injuries on him yet. Apart from the occasional rather painful sprain of his limbs, due to her brutality and indifference to his well-being. Her fingers could be hard, but her pussy was soft as butter.

Although nothing physical, a lot had already been damaged mentally. Every time down there, inside her cunt crack, it was like a barrage of explosives, bombarding his psyche. It was traumatic for him to helplessly witness what she was doing to him down there in her cunt, ruthlessly pursuing her orgasm.

More than once he had to realize that although he had become very intimate with Katrin, he was still completely alone down there as she ascended to ever higher spheres of ecstasy on her way to orgasm. She no longer even noticed his agony caused by the power of her hands and thighs. In those moments, she only thought about herself. She admitted it. Was she even proud of it? Always having an orgasm? He didn't dare protest to her.

Paul realized that Katrin was also alone with herself during their sex! That was dangerous for Paul. No broken bones so far, he thought. Lucky, but also a success in his fight with her hole. So far, he'd always been able to save his elbow or knee from the final crack at the last moment by managing to wriggle out with all his strength, for example, from her matted hair or from her sticky fingers when this gigantic naked woman twisted his joints, unknowingly. She no longer heard his squeaky screams when she buried him inside her, moaning.

When she was really enraged, she didn't care about anything. Paul was startled by this thought and groaned softly, then held his breath despondently on her chest – luckily, she hadn't heard anything.

He stroked her nipple again. He had to stay on task, because "Not always the same spot," she had often growled at him. He had a job to do! If she was dissatisfied with his work, he could be sure she would take matters into her own hands. In the truest sense of the word. And that wouldn't do him any good, that much was clear.

She knew exactly how to repeatedly achieve her sexual euphoria with him. First of all, she needed a kind of foreplay at the beginning, like in the old days, to get herself in the mood, so to speak. For example, this involved him having to watch up close what was about to happen to him. A hot sight for any normal man, since Paul wasn't normal, no longer a normal man; he now found her pussy threatening.

She didn't spare him the sight of her lubricating her pussy beforehand in joyful anticipation of her pleasure, or of her carefully and lengthily making similar preparations for his use down there. Paul had to watch the whole time. She got him into the living room, already naked from the waist down, onto the couch, lay on her back, and first placed him between her spread legs. Then she began her preparations, while he stood between her knees and waited. She took the prepared items from the living room table, like lubricant, squeezed a walnut-sized glob of it from the tube into her cupped hand, placed the tube back on the table, settled herself comfortably back on her pillows, and stared at Paul, grinning, while she rubbed the gel into her cunt.

Sometimes she would stimulate herself "beforehand" with a vibrator. While doing so, she observed his reluctant facial expressions and body language. He didn't dare express his feelings verbally in such awe-inspiring surroundings: her huge legs beside him, her knees over him, her beautiful feet behind him, her joyful face behind her hairy pussy – all of this intimidated him. And, amused, she mocked him, asking if he'd gone gay? Because he didn't have an erection, and similar indecent remarks he'd had to listen to "beforehand" in the face of her enormous pussy.

Who was he supposed to complain to? Paul suppressed another pained groan as his hopeless situation became clear to him once again.

He had to wait in front of her pussy until it was his turn. She looked at him and grinned. He took this impudent grin for anticipation, a sadly one-sided one, he thought. She called it "waiting for your turn." It turned her on, no doubt about it!

She no longer felt any shame. Not in front of him. With that, she showed him that he would never escape her again. He wouldn't tell anyone, how could he? She had told him that coldly several times. And that was the truth. She had nothing to fear. She had everything taken care of. The room doors were closed to him, no chance of leaving. When she wasn't around, she put him in the glass case so he wouldn't rummage or saw unnoticed to get outside. Escaping her lust? Impossible!

And she became wet as she told him this with relish, waiting in front of her cunt once again. He had seen it, it turned her on to tell him: "You are mine! My secret treasure, forever!" And she went on to lecture him at length about how he had become a minor for her, how he had to surrender to her lust, and so on. Mercilessly open, verbally and vaginally.

She criticized him when he averted his gaze from her pussy, which she presented to him far too often and so repulsively intrusively: "What do you mean by shameless? We're together forever, so we won't have any more secrets from each other, right, Paul, do you see it differently?" and went one step further by laughing and forcing him to look while he had to wait standing between her thighs. She could hurt him if he looked away.

Doing all this to him "beforehand" aroused her; she was using Paul like she was now, on her breast, Paul thought to himself, and spat in her hands, which then stroked her areola again.

So this was her new version of 'foreplay,' something women supposedly always need during sex. It's a truism that women need it; Paul already knew that "back then." Unfortunately, she was a bit particular about it, he thought, given how decidedly exhibitionistic she had become towards him! Never before had a woman been as open with him as she was now. None of the girls he'd ever met before Katrin had shown him their genitals with such relish. And he'd gotten into bed with many girls in the past, with many, he remembered, massaging her large nipples.

He always had to push the ladies, he'd had to beg and woo them if he wanted to look at a pussy. That's how it used to be.

Today, exactly the opposite: he had to look at her genitals several times a day. He had to look at her huge naked cunt and praise her pussy for its beauty, her vulva, puckered on the inside, plump on the outside, which she often and happily presented to him up close, with visible pleasure. The natural impurities he saw in her cunt, the stench that sometimes changed hourly, the particularly nasty part of her down there, he'd better keep quiet about...

She'd already shown him what it looked like when she was bleeding and was delighted by his reaction: "It's about time you started thinking about the stresses we women have to deal with every month, hehehe..." He was supposed to touch the tampon she'd pulled out; just smelling the disgusting thing was enough for him.

And she was too, because she enjoyed his reaction to her "instructive offer," his "sour expression," and laughed at him loudly.

Paul rubbed her light brown, almost pink areola with both hands again. She seemed to enjoy what he was doing the whole time. Katrin breathed quietly beneath him. She smiled relaxedly, her eyes closed.

Paul came to the conclusion: The balance of power had tipped. She had the upper hand. That changed everything. Men used to have power over women. Though not quite as much as Katrin now has over him.

She no longer demanded anything in return for sex with her, like his girls demanded of him back then. He always had to offer them something, that's a fact; he had to give before they would 'give' him the intimacy he craved in return.

Although not all of them would allow him to look at their pussy at some point. Immediately, without preconditions like with Katrin now, unthinkable. No, he first had to invite them to dinner or something, then came the kissing and so on, and then, after much effort on his part, he was allowed to get into bed with her to get intimate, although this was only successful if he seemed to offer her a future that would be advantageous for her. Quickies without any upfront effort on his part weren't part of his experience. Perhaps such a thing existed, he thought. Normal gals always practised usury with their natural pounds. Katrin no longer had to do that because she was married to him.

In the old days, men had to promise marriage to the woman of their dreams in return for sex. Then, maybe, someday, look at pussy, that's how it used to be.

Now it was often the other way around. Women were in charge. Like with him. The balance of power had tipped. And that had nothing to do with enforced women's rights, but only with people's power and powerlessness.

Seducing women back then meant negotiating with them, about sex. He was now in a less powerful position than these women had been back then. He was no longer able to renegotiate the power balance in his marriage on a daily basis, as had been necessary and customary in every marriage in the past. Who gets the TV remote?

If it happened in the past that you had sex with someone against their will, you (the man) were punished. That's the only crucial point, Paul thought: What are the power balances like? Who can rape whom? Who can do it with impunity?

Paul had realized: It was always about negotiating privileges and rights between people. In this respect, everyone was equal, more or less. Whether male or female, there's no difference in principle. People abuse power when they can, always have. Women are human beings too; if they have unlimited power, they will abuse it without restriction; in that respect, they're no different from men. In the past, hardly anyone had unlimited power, not even in slavery among Muslims and Americans. Katrin has it today, and she's human. It's that simple. When will she deny Paul his humanity?

It's all just a matter of perspective. Paul knew his only too well; he saw her from below often enough. And Katrin enjoyed hers more and more every day.

Below or above. As a married couple, they were no longer on equal footing, that was it. Power relations reorganized. Period. And he, Paul, had arranged it that way for himself, he thought contritely.

Everything else followed from that, in their relationship. Even during sex. First came their foreplay, of course; she was a woman. Then the rest followed, culminating in their ecstasy. For this 'rest,' she then used Paul's warm little body, guided selfishly by her hands.

Paul remembered painfully: Down there in her slime, he felt exposed to forces, tossed helplessly around like a fish in the surf. As if chewed through in overwhelming whirlpools, always aware of the proximity of dangerous cliffs – and afraid.

For her, his complaints that rose to her from her vulva were just "whining," she would tell him disparagingly. If she even heard his squeaky cries. Laughing, she would usually advise him something like: "... stop all that embarrassing whining down there, that's exactly what you wanted, right? Remember what the general said and enjoy the sex."

With these thoughts in mind, he continued to stroke her nipple and her pimply, rough areola. He could feel in the darkness where the lighter skin of her breast began. Katrin had barely moved, only sighing now and then. Having Paulchen on her breasts "felt so good for her." It calmed him that she had praised him: "so nice afterward," and "she needed him to enjoy it."

She also repeatedly forced him to "change positions" "afterward." That could mean many things. But it always meant being moved from her breast to somewhere else so she could "enjoy" her endorphin boost. However, the choice of where or where was always open to him. She determined Paul's target area, in any case without his having a say. Why should she?

She didn't usually let him crawl all over her freely. She moved him in her hand, a "change of position." The most pleasant of all, Paul thought, was when she moved him to her other breast. Lying naked on her warm breast, massaging it, was OK, Paul thought.

Or, Paul thought, it wasn't actually unpleasant either, when she suddenly rolled onto her stomach, holding him up in her hand, and then set him down on her back: "Walk, please."

During this march across her back, he always avoided the vicinity of her buttocks if he could. That is, unless she ordered him to march over her round, smooth, flawless ass as well. Because of the smell there, but the main reason was that he didn't want to stimulate her too much. She enjoyed sending him off with the cry, "Slide, yay!" To poke down into her crack when he made the mistake of wandering down her extended back, far enough down so that she could push him into her ass. The poking was part of this game. Simply pushing him in there, she could do that anyway, if she wanted to, anytime she felt like it. Paul didn't understand some of her games.

Paul was, as he was now, still a little soiled; he was still slippery with her juices. Her "slide" over her holes was just as slimy as he was. No wonder he slid down like a glove, over her anus and her labia, not daring to hold on to her hair. Her entire pelvis jerked and twitched with pleasure. [UNUSABLE: "He remembered thinking he was really at the ass now. And that it would still be better for him than being in the ass." --> Er erinnerte sich, dass er dabei dachte, nun wirklich am Arsch zu sein. Und, dass es immer noch besser wäre für ihn, als im Arsch zu sein. --> Hardly translatable pun, in German to be „in“ or some say „at“ the ass is vulgar for being as good as dead or similar, here it is meant that the dead man Paul is better positioned on the ass than in the ass – some use „at“ some „in“ at least although it means the same thing: doomed] And that he could even laugh at his thought yesterday. He found being teased yesterday bizarre, but not so bad.

Yesterday she felt him sliding down her butt crack and then, as a joke, wedged him between her buttocks, which were muscular from her thousands of hours at the gym, doing yoga, Pilates, Zumba, and so on. She detested gyms [orig. „Muckibude“ = in approximately „muscle machine booth“], and her toned figure was stunningly feminine.

He was stuck in her ass. At which she giggled, then relaxed again and let him slide a little further, sometimes bucking her buttocks to help him along if he didn't slide immediately, stuck in her long groove, but then grabbed him again with those, the strongest muscles of her huge body, and did it again and again until he flopped onto the mattress. Her playful goal was to clamp him in like that as often as possible during a "slide" and then to enjoy that special thrill as he finally slid over her pussy and then fell through. There he lay again in the wetness and heard her giggling from afar, saying something like, "I've managed to clamp you in three times now, that's hot!"

Another one of her little games, locking him inside her? A demonstration of power? Property? Possession? He asked himself again.

At least this teasing of her ass didn't hurt, Paul told himself, rubbing the sides of her breast vigorously with both arms.

But it was embarrassing. Down there with her, it was never a pleasure for him anymore since he'd become so small. So he preferred to stroke the tip of her now hard nipple on her breast. Because there were worse things for Paul: having to go back into her wet, hot tightness between her long legs.

Even "afterward," meaning being transported back to her cunt, happened often. Paul would then freeze in shock, helpless to prevent what was to come, gripped by her powerful fingers. He already thought he had it all behind him.

It was always a shock for Paul when, at the end of his short journey to her South Pole, he had to see her wet, hairy sex again "afterward." Because down there, the work was incomparably harder for him than, say, having to tiptoe over her back. Not that again! He thought desperately down there... And then, for better or worse, he had to perform his loving service on her cunt. "Standing upright, like a man," she sneered from above.

He remembered how just yesterday he had stood between her thighs, her completely naked on her stomach, all he could do was stare at her enormous, round ass  upstairs while he had to stroke her wrinkled slit. She would whisper her binding advice to him from above, but only if she liked what he was doing “with his little hands on her pussy.”

She enjoyed it. Otherwise, if she was dissatisfied with his work, she would intervene, literally, barking at him. Often, he couldn't hear the whole thing, acoustically, because, like yesterday, she had once again pressed his little head so brutally into her pink vulva. But up to his ears, he couldn't hear anything in there, except for that smacking sound...

So she had satisfied herself with him again, and now I'm lying on her bare, full breast again, Paul thought. Depressing, but he had "it" behind him once again. He would almost call himself happy, at the moment, stretched out on her warm, soft breast. Fortunately, he had survived the strain on her pussy more or less unscathed. Now, in the darkness of the bedroom, he gently stroked her pink nipple, because he knew she really liked the "after." Sex was important to her, including this up here, the "after" on her tits was part of it.

He couldn't upset her, but that should be easy, here on her chest, no problem for him. Paul overcame his exhaustion and was glad that 'it' was over. Hopefully. Until next time...

He lay naked on her left breast, her nipple in front of him. She smelled of woman and shower gel - he thought he stank.

Her flawless skin was smooth, firm, and hairless. Her full breasts gave only slightly beneath his ridiculously small bulk. But standing was still too difficult for him, because her curved skin bounced beneath his bare feet. Whenever he tried to walk over her mounds of breasts, he always preferred to get on his knees and "crawl" on her when she ordered him to walk for once, instead of using her hand to transport him to the exact spot of her desire, which was the norm. For example, when she didn't have her hands free.

She also liked it when he crawled on her, on her stomach, for example. He would then have to walk down over her mound of breasts, all the way to her unshaven bush and back again, and he would also have to walk in circles around her navel. It was up to her, up to her pleasure. She gave him only brief instructions, and he obeyed. No problem.

Or when she ordered him to tiptoe on her legs, from one foot to the other and back, balancing on her shins with particular concentration. When Katrin lay on her stomach, it was even easier; her calves were nice and round.

But her constant jokes! He didn't like having to endure her pranks. For example, when she threw him off her relatively hard thighs, which Paul could actually walk on easily, as a form of harassment by playfully bending her knee, or jerking her thighs out from under him, only to then let him fall into her crotch because: "it tickles so nicely"!? Where she then trapped him, as "punishment for his failure in the big march"?! For Paul, that meant shortness of breath and agony again, but was apparently "great fun" for Katrin.

She led during sex, he had long since realized that. She simply reached for him to take him, for that, for her pleasure.

It was a strange feeling for him to be grabbed by her. Her fingers were soft and hard at the same time, far stronger than his legs. Her hands were dry or slippery, but always warm, smelling different depending on the situation: sometimes of moisturizer, sometimes of strawberries, sometimes of piss. Her huge fingers could be tender and brutal. To put it mildly, Paul respected her graspers.

Her hands were comforting to him when she was being kind to him. But it could also be shocking for him to experience the sudden appearance of her huge hand and to feel its overwhelming power.

The horror predominated over what her hands did to him, although she also liked to stroke him with her fingertips. These tender touches weren't always pleasant for him. For example, when she held him in front of her face, lying on her side, looking at him relaxedly, playing with his penis. Okay, but then she mocked him: "What's that supposed to mean? What are you offering me? Not in the mood for sex today?" That was a different kind of terror for Paul. She demoralized him, manipulated him, that's for sure.

She usually reached for him gently when she wanted him, and he stayed still. What else could he do? It could be very painful when he tried to escape her grip in a panic.

Then, in her hand, her fingers wrapped tightly around his torso, he could fly through the air so fast that he lost his bearings, and only his sense of smell would tell him where she'd placed him. The acceleration! And then a rapid turn! Paul often couldn't even distinguish up from down; he only saw colors and vague shapes around him, perhaps briefly recognizing her skin, her hair, then nothing again, and suddenly he was where she wanted him to be.

His sense of smell had become incredibly sensitive, as had his hearing. He used it to orient himself unconsciously, especially when he couldn't see anything. When she took him under her covers, there was really only one place for him: between her thighs. And then, when he arrived in the deepest darkness between her legs under her covers, he knew immediately where she'd taken him; he could smell it. And he heard the soft smacking of her fingers in her hole.

Her feet smelled different than under her armpits. Her long chestnut-brown hair, she was actually light blonde, smelled completely different, incomparable. The smell of her nipples was pleasant to Paul, but the smell of her ass crack wasn't so tempting...

Especially when she woke up horny, even in the middle of the night, she would get Paul under the covers, as he was lying next to her, within easy reach, asleep. Most of the time, though, she would uncover herself completely for 'lovemaking' in the marital bed, lying stretched out naked, huge and intimidating.

On the couch, she was always exposed anyway when she wanted to "cuddle" with him, at least from the waist down to her orange painted toenails. It was always warm in the living room; she needed at least 25°C. Money didn't matter; she wanted it to be cozy and warm.

With her pillows pressed back, her legs wide apart on her couch, she placed Paul in front of her pussy and watched him mischievously as he dealt with his new, yet familiar situation down there. Then, since she was already wet, she kindly asked him to begin now, please...

The full moon illuminated the thuja hedge, which stood just three meters in front of the bedroom window of her bungalow. It wasn't completely dark in the room. Like a silhouette in front of the window, he saw her nipple as the crowning glory of her rounded breast. His left ear against her warm skin, he heard her loud, muffled heartbeat and the barely audible, soft, cyclical murmur of her breathing. It roared loudly in there when she spoke. His left hand stroked her breast, and with his right hand, he grasped almost her entire nipple. He kneaded her rough flesh, working his way down to the areola and back to the tip.

Her now tiny Paul usually had to put in quite a bit of physical effort during sex so she could "feel something" from his massages. He couldn't hurt her anymore, as small as he had become. Her areola was probably more sensitive; his gentle caresses were enough to make her sigh contentedly, signaling to Paul that he was good. He had to really knead her short, pointy nipples to satisfy her.

In such happy moments (of course, I mean her happy moments), she liked to just chatter away, freely, whatever came into her head. Even in the past, during sex, she would sometimes suddenly restart some storyline that seemed completely out of place to Paul and then chatter on and on. This made Paul angry during sex; it bothered him; he also wondered what else might be going through her head during sex.

That she sometimes didn't think at all, as she repeatedly and firmly claimed to him, in contrast to him – who saw himself as more of a brooding person – he had already been astonished to accept this as a fact, but he'd never been able to get used to it. What leaps of thought she must have! In the middle of sex, even when he was about to cum – he hated that about her. Judging by the topics she brought up, it was completely out of the blue.

That used to be annoying for Paul, but now he wasn't having sex anymore, so she couldn't get in his way with it anymore. He had completely different problems now...

Now it started happening again for her: He stroked her nipple, she breathed calmly beneath him, occasionally interrupted by a sigh. But then she suddenly took a deep breath and started excitedly telling him about the Berlin S-Bahn!

She talked, raised her head to look at him, senseless in the darkness. Paul slipped from her breast as she wiggled, she pushed him back, held him there, his belly pressed against her nipple, and talked, talked...

It had occurred to her that she had recently been so pleased about the new women's carriages they had installed on the S-Bahn in Berlin, all pretty in purple and pink.

The Berlin S-Bahn, red and yellow for a hundred years! Now purple and pink! Only the men's carriages are still painted in the old dark red and ochre yellow, which today only amounts to a few carriages on a train. Men, real men, had become rare and fearful too, didn't like traveling so much anymore.

She had seen this because she had been at that pharmaceutical conference in Berlin, as she vividly remembered. Paul had, of course, been locked in his aquarium back then, the whole time, he remembered too. Company cars had long since been phased out, even at her institute, due to the global warming catastrophe and the ecological footprint, and so on. Of course, she only rode a cargo bike from her institute for short business trips, electric bikes with an app, or, rarely, took the train for long distances: "...they're now separating men and women everywhere in Berlin. Sexual violence, you know, is getting out of hand. In the past, girls would get knockout drops in their cocktails and then be raped in groups; today it's the other way around. A twist of fate, I actually like it. It's funny. As a man on the S-Bahn, they unnoticed smear a 27/XT into your collar, in the crush, some girl shadows you in the carriage, that's how it was until now, and then she takes you out, they pick you up at the station, when you get off, you're shadowed by this bitch with a cell phone, and then all of a sudden, in a lonely park, a whole bunch of bitches jump out of the bushes, so you have no chance of escaping them. Then, wrapped in a carpet, they'll get you into the van. You won't even notice it anymore because the women will somehow make you faint. And then, after your maturing process with some chick in the basement, you'll be fucked every day, on a piecework basis. So much money is made there, these men really have to perform, Paulchen, you'll take it easy here with me. It's supposed to be a real business in Berlin, there are even apps for it, but I think it costs several thousand a night to shove one of those lusty little guys in your ass, I read somewhere. Girl power, hehehe... like in Hamburg, the rising number of sexual offenses and even rapes is the reason, the left-wing TAZ writes verbatim, I read it on the internet." https://taz.de/Sind-Frauenwaggons-im-OePNV-eine-gute-Idee/!6080841/

Paul pretended to share her enthusiasm. He thought it was a good moment to ask Katrin for something. He approached her cautiously: "Katrin, listen..." - "Yes?" - "I want my own bed."

She burst out laughing: "What kind of ideas are these? Should I buy you a crib?" - "Fair enough for me. But if I had my own bed, that would be nice."

The gigantic naked woman silently rolled onto her side and brought Paulchen up to her face. With her right hand, she flicked the cord switch for the light. Two large brown eyes looked at him. What long eyelashes she has, he thought, trying to wriggle out of the warm air stream from her nostrils. He barely succeeded. She had him firmly in her hand. He had no chance of moving anywhere when she held him like that. Supporting her head with her other hand, she watched him with a smile. He felt very uncomfortable, but made another run; it was important. He stammered, squeaking, "I mean, it scares me every time I'm woken up..."

She continued to smile, now mockingly: "Who dares to woke my little Thumb? Could it have been me? You poor thing! My feminine passion has probably gotten a little too wild for the little gentleman, hasn't it? Tell me!"

Paul ignored her mockery and squeaked timidly: "I mean, well... your hand... at night... how should I say it, when I'm sleeping, you always scare me... so suddenly and so... I need my sleep. It's good for you too. Every time you turn over in your sleep, I get a fright and am wide awake... and then I listen... it's stressful... understand, Katrin... please..."

She frowned and remained silent. He had upset her. That much was clear. Paul didn't dare say another word to her. She sighed and rolled back onto her back.

And then she kicked off her bed covers! Looking out of her hand, he could see her bare thighs, her bush down there too. She lifted Paul up high enough for him to watch the spectacle of her thighs slowly opening for her hand, which was now visibly and audibly active in her crotch. She was fingering herself? She was holding him up so he could see her naked splendor in all its glory...

Then, in her long, slender fingers, he moved to her face, and she stared at him for a long time. It was bright in the bedroom. He saw her eyes twitch, then narrow into slits.

He had to see her strange grin again. It wasn't a friendly smile, no, it was a condescending grin. "Yeah, right," thought Paul, "What did I expect... now she's going to show me who's boss again, great... I, the idiot, could have had some peace and quiet now..."

Paul saw her face move away from him from her tightly closed hand.

No! Unfortunately, it wasn't just back to her breasts! The journey continued, downward, downward, to her south pole. Past her belly, deeper, deeper. He knew what was coming when he saw her legs open wider.

She tucked him in without looking, with both hands, one hand already smeared with her mucus, she snuggled him between her labia and then closed her thighs so tightly that he immediately lost his breath.

He understood what she did so often with him, down there with her. Even though he detested it: She felt him, against her pussy, with pleasure. It pleased her that he was there, that he was hers, that he couldn't possibly contradict her "cuddles." That she could show him, trapped like this, that she was the boss, that she could take him over physically and mentally, that she could devour him, so to speak, if she only wanted to! And the best part was: All of this was guaranteed to be unpunished for her, because no one knew what naughty things she was doing to him!

But she wanted more than just quick sex with him. She wanted to use him for her pleasure for a very long time, preferably for all eternity.

She would keep him all to herself forever, would have a one hundred percent faithful husband until death do them part, she had told him with a grin. She would look after him. He found that plausible and recognized an advantage for himself: This is my life insurance. But at the same time, he doubted the meaning of his life. He asked himself more and more often, always when he was down there with her: Is this still a life for me, a life worth striving for? As small and disenfranchised as he had become now? Just fair game for her? Perhaps soon no more human beings for her? What then?!

What was he to her now? Wasn't he now just like a lapdog? Like one of those miniature dogs, trained for the intimate pleasures of women, like those lapdogs beloved by women for centuries? He knew the purpose for which they had been bred. Even in ancient Roman times. Little known, but lapdogs were also trained for sexual purposes: cunnilingus, zoophilia—that was just the way it was. Women are human too, with their urges and desires, nothing human is alien to them. Like all humans, women are quite unbridled as long as they don't have to fear consequences. In this respect, they were no different from men, Paul was convinced of this, today more than ever.

https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scho%C3%9Fhund

He also knew Gotthold Ephraim Lessing's epigram from 1771 [machine translat.]:

"To Dorilis
Your little dog, Dorilis, is tender, flirtatious, pure:
That you lick it like that, should that surprise me? No!
But your little dog licks you:
And this surprises me."

https://www.projekt-gutenberg.org/lessing/sinnged/chap061.html

A translation into English by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, which omitted any mention of Lessing, first appeared in 1800.

Thy lapdog, Rufa, is a dainty beast,
It don't surprise me in the least.
To see thee lick so dainty clean a beast.
But that so dainty clean a beast licks thee,
Yes — that surprises me.

https://www.wikiwand.com/de/articles/Scho%C3%9Fhund

So Paul was once again down there with his Katrin, in her naked crotch, the slime, crammed into the heat between her thighs. He, by her, was firmly clamped in one of her erogenous zones. And at her mercy, helpless. She liked that. And she saw no reason to hide it from him.

And the fact that she didn't have to account to anyone for everything she did with him was what turned her on especially.

Sex with Katrin. More and more often, even against his will. And that this, the breaking of his will, fueled her desire to use him for her own lust despite his pleading and resistance, that was a fact. They both knew this, and Paul had to acknowledge it too.

He thought things were getting worse and worse with her! Clamping him between her thighs – clearly a ritual of possession for him – and so humiliating for him! And she even hypocritically called it "cuddling"?!

Then she opened her thighs again. Just a little, just wide enough to "sort him out" down there. But she wouldn't open wide enough for him to escape her pussy. Although that wouldn't do him any good; out of sheer panic, he'd want to run away, anywhere, just get away from here! She already knew that. And bringing him back would be a nuisance. The little idiot would only reach her knees, at most; her legs were powerful prison guards... And he'd be escaping for nothing; he'd have to go back to her pussy anyway, which would only prolong the whole thing for him, especially because she would be annoyed by his bad behavior...

She should use a leash again. She should try it, she decided. With it, she could pull him back to her pussy with pleasure after a rash escape attempt. Nice and slow, punishment is necessary, and he should then calmly see where he belongs.

She decided to try it with him next time on the couch; it would be more practical then. And she'd find an excuse to discipline him a little on the couch, the rascal!

She raised her naked upper body, leaning on her elbows to look down at him with a blissful smile: "Ooch... you look miserable down there... don't you like being tightly embraced by your sex goddess anymore?" and looked into his face, grinning, while she closed her taut, smooth thighs tightly around him again, not without taking care that his face would be forced into her bush. This way he could breathe now and then. And he would have to look at her taut stomach and, behind it, the round globes of her breasts. She liked it when he admired her naked beauty.

She liked many things, including feeling him wriggling at her pussy, buried between her long muscular legs, so manageable and helpless as he had now become.

"What wonderfully perfect pink nipples she has," he thought: "She is beautiful." This view of his wife's swelling feminine forms! And on the other hand, this increasing violence of hers! This confused him: "My feelings will drive me crazy if this continues! The heat in here, and her smell! Smell? Stench! I'm going crazy!" he wailed.

She stared at him, with that strange, frozen smile of hers. Her muscles suddenly squeezed him. Hard flesh around him, her leg muscles, pressing him unbearably again – and thus pushing him deep inside, into her soft, slick pussy.

She played with him, he knew how. If he made the mistake of writhing in pain, it would only excite her more. Her gaze was piercing, fixed on him in the grip of her flesh. She obviously enjoyed his discomfort.

She let go just in time, his vision had already gone black. Breathe! He thought, only: Air, air, air! No matter that it stank. No matter that she was staring. He now found her cunt stank disgustingly!

With his head forced into her pubic hair, he smelled the scent of her skin, along with her lustful scent, sour sweat, but also urine. Even the stench down there, noticeable early on during his involuntary approach, was now frightening him. Acquired Pavlovian reflexes, he thought.

Even worse, he found the sight of her cunt opening before him when he stood there and witnessed her growing arousal. The skin of her outer labia recently reminded him of a plucked chicken neck.

Crazy, he thought when he first saw inside her: She has a real hole! Now he was really afraid of shrinking even further. Until now, he had been able to suppress the knowledge of his unchecked loss of length. His fear was justified; her hole was bigger than he remembered? Was she expanding it? With her vibrator exercises, which he had often had to watch? Was that even possible? She used to be so tight!

Paul had known this little game down there with her longer than her now so big hole – Katrin "cuddled" with him, as she called it. Most of the time, it was almost unbearable for him.

When she let go again, he was able to squeeze out a few sentences, begging for peace: "...it's not that I don't find you hot, Kati. But please, a little foreplay," she squeezed him again, interrupting him, then giving him some air to breathe: "I mean like before, getting you going a little first, I would..." - She squeezed him again, her pelvis rocking back and forth with pleasure, as if she were chewing him - "I'd prefer that... ahh... than being rudely ripped from sleep every time and then immediately finding myself between your thighs... without even being fully awake... it's the smell... of your pussy in my nose that wakes me up... please... give me time... to wake up..."

She seemed to find it funny that she could silence him so easily, down there, inside her.

With her lower body tickling with desire, the lustful thought came to her: "I've almost got him all the way inside me, just wait... wait a little while longer..." and it flowed again, it slid so beautifully now... With two fingers, she pressed him firmly into her slit by the neck and head and moaned as he wriggled. He couldn't breathe anymore, which was a good thing. She would notice in time if he fainted, she thought, and her pelvis began to swing with pleasure.

Paul wasn't sure if she had even listened to him? Was everything now just about her?! The lack of air made him panic; he wanted so badly, but couldn't lash out, his arms pressed to his sides. And he floated away, into nothingness.

15. Dinner stories, some politics on TV, and unfortunately, too much sex again
                                [unfortunately too much sex again for little Paul, of course]

Sunday (24 centimeters)

Paul had quickly recovered from his breathing problem, acquired in her erogenous zone. The very next evening, he was fit again and didn't faint again the evening after that, or the evenings after that.

Yesterday at breakfast, she had assigned him his new place: From now on, he was no longer sitting next to her on the couch. That was causing too many problems, she said: "At my table, that's where you'll eat with me from today on!" she had told him, and grinned at him: "Not next to me anymore. Because. Next to my butt on the couch, it's become far too dangerous for you, you delicate little fellow. Actually, only my food belongs on my table. And maybe my newspaper. Exceptions prove the rule, although I don't have that right now, as you'll see in bed tonight." She laughed at her joke. [„joke“ refers to menstrual bleeding, germ. „regel“ = rule]

"I can't look at you enough, you're so sweet! Sweet enough to eat. Sort of, but not really. My „Mumu“ [popular term for genitals among certain women] will eat you one day, you'll see..." She laughed at him and continued: "Again: My giant ass would break all your bones if I accidentally sat on you. Sure, only accidentally. I love you. I'd be careful, though. But if, just for example, if my girlfriend calls me, it could really happen that I could spontaneously crush you under my ass, without me wanting to, of course. You wouldn't be able to make a sound if I broke your bones with my butt. But you'd be worthless as red mush."

She had said "worthless," he thought, and thought: "Am I valuable?" and: "Does she really still love me?"

So he was sitting on her dining table in the living room, her towering torso in front of him. He was sitting on two books she'd provisionally placed there, and she'd given him a small bamboo table in front of him. The thing was actually meant for the cactus, but she'd quickly taken it from the corner of the living room and turned it into his dining table, until further notice, as she said.

Now he had to watch from up close as bite after bite disappeared into her large mouth, only to be crushed by her white teeth. A sight he treated himself to less and less often. It was somehow intimidating. Because of the size? He wondered.

Even when she smiled at him, it sometimes seemed to him as if she were baring her teeth.

He found it all somehow threatening: her large mouth, framed by plump red lips, her teeth, the sounds she made when she bit and chewed...

He consoled himself with the thought that this intrusive view of her metabolism operating above him was probably just new to him? And that he would get used to it?

After all, she would never force him into her oral cavity, would she?

She'd licked him with pleasure many times before, but that up there: her throat behind her teeth! Having to go in there, surely? She wouldn't do that; she would respect his fear of her dentures.

They both ate in silence. She watched him crouching there in front of her with his head bowed, her little Paulchen [Diminutive suffix "chen", here also for small children].

Then, casually, as he tore the assigned bite into his small hands and stuffed it into his mouth, he asked her if he wasn't allowed outside anymore? Could she take him outside for a bit, for a little sunbathing? Under her supervision, of course, he added.

She paused chewing, lowered her gaze, as if there were something down there, invisible to Paul behind the tabletop, then, looking sharply at Paul again, stuffed her mouth very full. After an intense, theatrical chew, she suddenly stood up, her cheeks plump, and mumbled down to him with her mouth full: "Monn, I frgot..." and then disappeared from the living room without a word. A few minutes later, she came back, still silent, and continued eating.

When he asked her again, she reacted with an outburst of anger: "I told you not to go out, never to do that, go out, otherwise we'll have this shit in no time. You big mouth, you think nothing can happen to you if you're just careful! You don't even know how important this is for you, this hiding place in here with me! It's like a guarantee of your survival. I promise you." And she continued munching silently. Paul understood that she would never let him leave the house again.

After a while, she swallowed, cleaned her mouth with her tongue, smacking her lips at Paul, and continued: "We saw that yesterday on my show. It was creepy, when those burglars stole her husband? Don't you know that you tots are very expensive? I don't have to explain that to you, are you that stupid?!" Katrin groaned in annoyance. And now gently to him down there: "...you know how much joy you give me..." She took another bite and became aggressive again: "But please, the little gentleman is welcome to go outside, and you can let the neighbor grab you. Have fun. She's a widow, she'd be delighted. I'll leave the rest to your imagination. Just this much: She'd fuck you so hard that after her first pleasure, you'd no longer know which way is up. Or whether you're male or female, which wouldn't be anything special these days. But just imagine if she wasn't as tender with you as I am? What then, you braggart? Who knows how long that ugly old saddlecloth hasn't had anything warm in its belly? With me, you can live and maybe have fun too... At least you can stay alive with me, isn't that something? Just look at yourself, you imp! You want to get out into the big, into that evil world out there? Really?"

Katrin was genuinely outraged by his stupidity: "With the one next door, with that old leather guy, I'm sure it won't take a week until you're kicking the bucket deep inside her cunt. I have no idea if she's as considerate as I am. I don't think so. But I could be wrong. I wouldn't even try it if I were you. It could be hell for you, her hole. Because I know one thing. I've seen her naked in the sauna several times. I mean, seen it all; we women look at other women too. You know I'm not a lesbian. But I also like to look at a naked woman, purely out of interest and for comparison. I know: She definitely has a huge, worn-out hole; you'll easily fit in there now, with your ridiculous size, not me yet. But all the way in with her, I tell you, you'd disappear all the way in with her, and when I say 'all the way,' I mean 'All the way.' She just spreads her legs in front of you, you dwarf, bang, from a standing position, whether standing or in bed, it doesn't matter, if he wants to, she opens up. And then she gets you under her skirt, doesn't even take off her panties for you. And then it's your turn, she stuffs you in there without a second thought, into her dried-up old cunt, whenever she wants! And as often as she wants and as long as she wants, and no amount of whining or pleading will do you any good! She'll stuff you in there as far as she can, if you disappeared in there, then closes behind you. Lid closed - monkey dead [„Klappe zu, Affe tot“ In German, this means a quick, brutal solution to a problem]. And then you're stuck deep in her old saggy ass and crying after me. If you still have the breath for it, in there behind her smelly old labia rags! That's what it would be like for you, exactly like that! Then you call your Katrin for help, desperate and lonely! But that would be too late. How am I supposed to find you in there with her? I could never bring you back to me!

Paul had listened, horrified. She glared at him, searching his little face for a reaction to her words. She thought she hadn't described clearly enough the danger he was willing to expose himself to, voluntarily—and crazy as he was. He had proven to her that her Paul was "crazy," she thought, and continued her litany.

"She'll go shopping with you in her ass, cool as hell. You can't get out of her stinking hole if she doesn't want you to. So you'll have to go shopping with the slut in her fat ass, maybe she'll even shit in there with you, unbothered. When I imagine that one of those is in my pussy, I won't let the dwarf out when I go jogging... the poor bastard!"

Paul listened in horror. Katrin put on a gloomy face for him, searched his little face for a reaction to her words. She thought that she had not described clearly enough the danger he was putting himself in. She wanted to scare Paul, it had to be done, she'd get it across to him that with her, involuntarily in her pussy, it was still the lesser evil for him compared to the fate that awaited him with the ugly neighbor.

"I don't think you'll survive long in there with her. I'm young and I have labia lips, some women have labia rags, that old cow has tatters! I've seen it, hehehe. I've looked between her ugly, spotty, cellulite-covered thighs more than once on the wooden plank in the sauna after yoga, you haven't! Her calves covered in varicose veins. If I were you, I'd be scared. Do you really want to risk that? So I ask you: Me or her?! Or something even worse? The choice is yours!"

Paul was still silent. A new idea came to her to intimidate her little Paul: "Have you ever thought about the fags, queers, the breechloaders?! If one of those—he/she/it, you know, one, one, [only in german different, see ‚gendern‘] whatever—picks you up outside? What do you prefer?! Sex with me, surely? Tell me! Me or all the others out there?"

Paul, shocked at how foul-mouthed she had become, realized: competition among women has always existed when it comes to hunting men. And today more than ever. With dwarves like him, it bordered on greed, fanatical... And he remained silent, filled with fear. Katrin had achieved her goal.

She continued eating, Paul was speechless. Both remained silent.

Until Paul made one last, timid attempt. Her prohibition bothered him too much. Quietly, his head bowed, he spoke: "Katrin, I'm just saying: Get out, get into the sunshine. I'm so grateful to you for granting me asylum, so to speak, after the mess I've made. Yes, I made a terrible mistake, I admit it openly, no question. You're in so much trouble because of me now, I'm so sorry about that today, really, why would I lie? I expected everything to be different, not so stressful for me. If I didn't love you so much, I would never have come up with this stupid idea. How can I put it, I was so stupid, so foolish... because I love you so much!"

Hypocritically, he had extended his feelings of love for his wife to the present. Because in reality, all that remained of his love for his former sex goddess was respect.

And he continued to make a lot of effort to diplomatically persuade her to change her mind: "I know that you're looking after my health so that I don't die prematurely, as you say. But every prisonologist and serial killer gets time off, prison yard release. I can't spend my whole life in this house. I don't deserve that. And it would kill me. And you don't want that, do you?"

Katrin looked at him with wide eyes, stopped chewing, and said briefly, "No," to which Paul continued hopefully, "I know, Katrin. You're such a sweetheart. Your whole personality has always been so good-natured. Don't worry about me too much. I can understand you, but you're seeing things far too negatively, for example, what you said about my painful death by suffocation, hypothetically in the neighbor's. Thank you for worrying about me so much. I mean the dwarf death in the vagina, lack of oxygen. I understand what you mean, but that's a good example, because it's completely different for shrunken men, and you know that too. You're pointlessly panicking a bit too much because you love me so much and will never leave me; I know all that. But you also know, we little ones don't need to breathe in there because of the vaginal mucosa, which is particularly well supplied with blood during female sexual arousal. It goes from skin to skin. About the oxygen, so it wouldn't be as bad as you're portraying it here, so this is a good example for you to understand. That's not a good argument for not taking me outside every now and then. Besides, I don't know how the neighbor could possibly steal me from your clutches? You're such a big cat, you know. In short, you're exaggerating a bit because you love me so much. Katrin, please, let's talk about it again, okay? Please, Kati, don't let this be your last word, please..."

Katrin just looked at him mockingly, stiffened, and then went "Pfft" and "ts ts ts" and "Pah!" and began to giggle quietly, almost threateningly, her eyes serious: "We'll talk again, buddy, about whether that breathing must not be in there in me, like you think."

Paul paled. He had been able to suppress this disturbing thought for a long time. His realization that she had betrayed him, with this aftershot attack, which would shrink him even further from his admittedly self-inflicted 35-centimeter final height...

And Paul stammered quietly: "How small will I get?" Katrin looked away, now completely serious again, and remained silent even as she cleared the table.

After dinner, he had to watch the news with her; she had the power of the remote control. He now sat on the living room table all the time, watching TV with her from there.

The news reported that a huge step forward had been taken with the planned ban of this well-known right-wing extremist party. The ban on a dangerous party that, according to official polls, is now voted for by a third of the population in the former GDR, had even become the strongest political party in some areas. The domestic intelligence service „Verfassungsschutz“ [= „Protection of the Constitution“] , which reports to the government—more precisely, the domestic intelligence service that reports to the [„Ministerin“ = She-Minister, see ‚gender‘] Minister of the Interior—had submitted an expert opinion proving that this party, although represented in the Bundestag following a democratic election, was demonstrably anti-constitutional.

Paul complained that Germany didn't even have a constitution yet, only a "Basic Law" established by the victorious powers of World War II, and that only for West Germany. He quoted Article 146 of this still-valid law from memory: "'This Basic Law, which, after the completion of the unity and freedom of Germany, shall apply to the entire German people, shall cease to be valid on the day a constitution comes into force that has been freely decided upon by the German people.'

So what now? Paul was outraged. German reunification happened in 1990, and no one has drafted a constitution for Germany to this day!"

And Paul continued to argue that it was illogical anyway for this agency, which is merely one of Germany's domestic intelligence agencies, to call itself the "Office for the Protection of the Constitution." But if there were no "constitution" in Germany to this day, there would be nothing to protect. "Clear as day," Paul found out.

Katrin replied dryly: "That may all be true. But you don't have any other problems, do you? You're just in a bad mood again. And you have no idea about the latest developments in this case. Because you can't access the internet anymore. But I can. A whistleblower has now made the secret document from the Federal Office for the Protection of the Constitution public. I skimmed through it online. A newspaper published a link to the full text, so anyone can read it if they want.
https://www.tichyseinblick.de/wp-content/uploads/2025/05/Gutachten_BfV_AfD4.pdf

This is just a large collection of public statements. I don't even know why the Social Democrat [„Ministerin“ = She-minister] minister [Nancy F.] classified it as secret. Everything compiled by the Federal Office for the Protection of the Constitution is public and can be read. I wouldn't keep it secret at all if I were her. It's all just stuff from newspapers and copied from speeches that weren't secret at all, Twitter, Facebook, and the like—nothing secret, nothing at all. It's all 1,117 pages of stuff, like something like this on page 174, I've memorized. It says pretty much verbatim: The Hessian AfD's election manifesto for the state elections in October 2023 claims there will be a German Leitkultur (leading culture). I think that's completely unacceptable! And, even worse, the supposedly ever-increasing multiculturalism in Germany would threaten our cultural achievements? That's clearly punishable hate speech against immigrants! For example, the election manifesto of the AfD in Hesse claims that this would endanger the equality of men and women, which is quoted on page 174 in the supposedly secret document from the Federal Office for the Protection of the Constitution. These idiots from the AfD claim in this quote from the election manifesto: The equality of men and women would be endangered by these poor Arabs or the even poorer Africans who are now coming to us begging for help? Is that even possible? That's incitement to hatred, you go to jail for that, and rightly so! To claim such a thing is absolutely unconstitutional. The party should be banned. You can't understand that again! And what they wrote in the election manifesto is nonsense anyway. Because there is no such thing as equality, whether among Muslims, in Africa, or in Germany, it doesn't matter, there isn't! Because it all comes down to power, whoever has the power, that's the only thing that matters. And that's us women, we have the power, more and more! What if, for example, a racy, handsome immigrant young man from Afghanistan shrinks, or it's a native German like Diederich Hässling? What difference does that make to us women? Equality between men and women is a utopia. Just look at yourself! And then look at me! So?!"

Paul replied, blusteringly aggressive: "You women, always, with your women's quotas and all these other special rights you've secured for yourselves! Equal Opportunities Act? Equal rights? If that were meant honestly, demanding a women's quota in upper management and so on, like at work, for example! I mean, of course in the cozy, warm office you want the positions from the men, you as women are given legal preference in applications just because you are women, do you still call that an Equal Opportunities Act? If you were fair, then you would also take the millions of Ukrainian women who have fled to us, who, by the way, are supported here at state expense—and even more lavishly than many a German unemployed person! So if you were honest about the women's quota, which you won for yourselves against the men, if you were able to make your preferential treatment into law, if you were honest about the 50/50 for all jobs, then please also bring the vast numbers of Ukrainian women from Germany to implement your women's quota. Send them back to the Eastern Front against the Russians! Collect them and send them home on a special train. Until as many women have fallen there as there are dead men in this terrible war, the tens of thousands of men who have already died on both sides, almost all of them men. Then, only then, when as many women are dead and maimed as men, could they in Ukraine start again, as they do now, catching men off the streets to die in muddy ditch, because they're forbidden to leave Ukraine. I'd call that a women's quota! But you don't. You're supposedly better at almost everything than us men? And this military service for the fatherland Ukraine would be a piece of cake for you, right? Or for the motherland instead of the fatherland, if that's what you prefer. It could work for a woman, too, as a Ukrainian drone pilot, sitting in the basement of a bombed-out shack and steering drones. The job could be done by women, wouldn't it be a piece of cake for you? We can do it, girl power, right? But you don't want to, because women get cold so quickly? And the ruins of war are unheated. Okay...”

To which Katrin just laughed at him: “You nutcase, are you frustrated?”

That evening, in bed, he had to witness her trying for the second time to insert him, at least partially: One of his arms in – it worked! A foot – no problem either. Finally, she forced his entire leg into her muff. Slippery as her canal was, pleasurable for her, for him at first a painful splits, one in, one out.

It was terrible for him how she quietly murmured to him from above, satisfied with her success, but Paul, for his part, was initially paralyzed with fear. His helplessness as she forced him to cooperate in her dogged attempts to stuff him inside her down there, her observing gaze from above – it was simply degrading for him.

The embarrassing procedure had begun with her briefly dipping him in some kind of grease. Then, experimentally, very slowly, carefully, she inserted him inside her. For all those agonizing minutes, he had to watch up close what he was about to be stuffed into. She did it very carefully with him: a little in, then a little out, then a little deeper into her hot pink flesh. And a little out again. She had all the time in the world.

Two of his legs were finally inside her cunt, completely, both of his legs in her pussy. But not his ass. Forcing more of him inside her still hurt a little, she told him... Still... His wife was tightly built, and he was 24 centimeters long. Still...

Relaxed, she enjoyed her success in having Paul inside her, even if it wasn't her entire little dwarf that she felt inside her. In any case, it gave her very pleasant feelings, Paul's unsuccessful attempt to escape her hole, finally writhing so beautifully inside her.

Katrin alternately lay back and then sat up again to look down at him, how he looked into her eyes from beneath her curly hair with a pleading expression, his little hands pressing against her labia to push himself out. It tickled her, her pelvis twitching with pleasure. "Clitoris is coming soon," she thought, and giggled: "My pussy is stronger than you little rascal in there."

She moaned with delight as she lay on her back, kneading him down there with her vaginal muscles, unfortunately only his two legs for now, but still, she thought. From above, he heard her murmur: "I could get used to this... better than I had hoped... my cold Chinese vibrator is nothing compared to it... Aaah..."

The feeling was new to him, too. No, not entirely new: He knew it from the time when his penis had experienced that warm pressing inside her, back when he'd still had good vaginal sex with her.

Oh, how good it was back then, that wonderful, warm feeling on his cock, so hard to describe, that soft pressing, so slippery and hot inside, and somehow tight too, and somehow also nicely rubbing, hard and soft at the same time.

It was exactly like that again now. But completely different. Her vagina had now wrapped around his legs frighteningly tightly. She had threaded almost half of his entire body into her cunt. He had to watch; her bare thighs on the left and right were impossible to miss; between those high mountains of flesh, he saw his legs being carefully inserted by her. First his feet, then both his legs, finally pressed together, helpless, by her female flesh around him. He could barely push his knees past each other in there, so strong was her pressure.



But it was this new sucking of her vagina that made him panic. It was so oppressive! Like a swamp, disgustingly nightmarish, the sucking of her cunt, drawing him back into her depths, when, summoning all his strength, he finally was able to push himself out a little with his arms, out of her lustfully twitching, unbearably warm vagina. As soon as the strength in his arms waned, it pulled him back in again.

It was disgusting, this feeling, the look of her cunt, into which he was now returning. It drew him back into her hot, slimy hole of powerful muscles.

He was surprised that now, of all times in his predicament, he remembered the old days, when he had still been a man like a tree. Strangely, especially now, when she was using him so degradingly?

He hadn't forgotten how she had granted him the sex he longed for back then, far too rarely, he still felt in those days. How she then, squatting over him, had slowly pushed his penis up her ass and then a little lower, a little higher again, then even deeper, further and further, his penis deeper into her vagina. And then she rode him until he came, usually too soon for her. It wasn't his fault, she was so sexy...

He wished she'd been as lustful in those old days as she had become now.

Back then, unfortunately, it was mostly only on Sunday evenings, when she was rested enough. For sex, she needed to take a break from the work week, as she had always explained her countless rejections to him. When they were still really fucking each other, he thought wistfully.

Now she was fucking... No, not him. That was over and history forever.

He would never fuck again, but he didn't care. She was a giant now, and everything was different for him. He could now do without sex.

He had desperately resisted her attempts to thread him in this evening, with her legs spread half-lying, half-sitting. In vain, because she quickly got the hang of it, using only the fingers of one hand to prevent him from bending his knees, thus avoiding being pushed in by moving away. He felt like Hansel on the witch's bread shovel in front of the oven in the fairy tale. Her cunt was the oven he absolutely did not want to go into.

So she held his legs stretched out with one hand, with the other she examined her labia, which were erect. She didn't have to keep her vaginal opening free for him. Spreading her thighs wide apart was completely sufficient. And then she threaded him in. This is so easy, she thought happily.

The gnome finally disappeared inside her, up to his ass. Then it was over; she was too tight to achieve what she obviously wanted so much: get that little guy deep inside me!

She would have to wait a bit longer. But it would be great when... she thought.

Under her gaze, he had tried the whole time to escape what she had planned for him.

He had resisted with both hands. He had, of course, tried to bend his knees to prevent what she obviously planned for him down there.

But she became increasingly better at preventing that, the more she experimented with him, always under her sharp gaze, controlling him. She experimented with him in her hands like a newly purchased tool.


Sometimes, however, he managed to free one of his feet from her. Not for long, because her overpowering fingers quickly grabbed his escaped leg, skillfully straightened it, and pressed it back into her tight canal, joining the other. And then she pushed. Until he was inside. She enjoyed having him inside and the slow withdrawal afterwards.

He had been on the verge of a panic attack several times again. He had struggled and kicked desperately against her pink, slimy vulva. She quickly stopped his kicking. With her overpowering, skillful fingers, she also stopped his flail about, gently pushing his knees forward so that she could then press both his legs together with gentle force. Whereupon, with his toes, she felt the position of her vaginal opening and, thus positioned, finally slowly pushed him inside her again, keeping his knees fully extended.

She practiced this with him again and again, gently but relentlessly, her expression concentrated, as if performing a delicate mechanical montage, her upper body propped up on two pillows and her duvet, her knees bent.

At some point during her play with him, however, she suddenly stood up, threw him onto the sheets, and barked at him, "Stay there." Katrin had an idea. During a pee break, she had fetched his old shaving mirror from the bathroom and placed the practical mirror with its support between her knees.

So now she watched with pleasure every movement he made in her pussy, and also observed with amusement his furiously distorted little face down there. But "his bad mood again," as she scolded him, didn't bother her now; it didn't change his subordinate position, inside her. Only her will and her strength determined what happened to him between her muscular thighs.

If his legs (which she found quite pleasant to thrash about) were in her vagina up to his ass, only two of her fingers on his hips were enough to absolutely prevent him from escaping her tight hole. What was in there stayed in, if she wanted it that way, she noted with satisfaction. And if he kicked furiously, all the better...

She played with him; it gave her great pleasure. She pulled him out a little, very gently, only to then push him back in again with pleasure, everything happening very slowly.

Him inside, feeling him, his useless attempts at release, her two hands shoved under the back of her head, her eyes closed leisurely, completely focused on her nether regions, Paulchen still inside, probably suffering, no matter.

Then he felt, down below, a long period of calm between her spread thighs – apart from the occasional twitch of her vagina, that she was moving again, and soon after, her fingers appeared above him. He saw it above him, playing with her pussy, three fingers. Her second hand appeared, gently pulling Paul out just half a centimeter and then back in again, gently pushing it back in again until his ass slightly widened her cunt. And another pause. She sighed softly above him, quiet. Until her hands became active again. An endless humiliation, that's how Paul felt...

She did it herself, and he had to be restrained by her the whole time, because he didn't want this, not this, this wasn't sex! I'm a human being! He squeaked, he scolded, cursed, moaned. All barely audible to her. But she didn't care anyway; she was having fun and at most only gave him a giggle, no ear for his protest, his pitiful wailing from her cunt down there.

He couldn't reach her up there anymore, with his squeaking from her crotch, with his, to her, silly resistance to what he couldn't prevent anyway. On the contrary, it only fueled her desire even more.

Her cunt dripped with the knowledge that she owned him, that she could be sure that she would soon be able to devour him, skin and bone. Soon enough...

His little ass still had to stay out. Perhaps she could have achieved even more if she'd wanted to? But she knew she would only have to wait a few more days. Why should she hurt herself now? It was so very good for her...


He was relieved that she gave up trying to force him further inside her, because this repulsive process already made him feel like that frog being slowly swallowed by a snake while fully conscious. He didn't want to go in there; it was disgusting, it stank. He saw far too many of the details of her down there. When her fingers didn't grab his head so he couldn't see anything—he couldn't tear her massive thighs and her cunt out of his sight—he closed his eyes to the perception of his miserable existence in his wife's slimy, smelly, hairy cunt.

How would it feel, Paul wondered, to one day be completely forced into her vaginal maw? He could imagine it now, and he shuddered at the thought that this would now be his future! How small would he become?!

What had she ever done to him! He never wanted to be as small as he already was! It wasn't his fault what was about to happen to him. She had done this to him, she alone!

How many years would he have to watch what was happening around him, if this were happening to him, surrounded by his wife? Always the same? Or worse?

She moved her enormous thighs around him, like mighty sentinels. She writhed, her conical, small nipples emerging from behind her curly bush, then the two round hemispheres of her breasts, and then, accompanied by her moans, sank back into invisibility behind her pussy and bush above. Very close, the huge, elongated, pink, shiny hollow between her labia. Everything was just pink, light pink, dark pink, everything pink! And whenever he was close to it, like now – always shiny, moist, wet pink, all around, curly, light brown, wire-like hair on her pale skin with the large pores. Down below, in the great pink, there gaped the hole that led into the darkness, her cave, into which he would probably have to enter more often now.

It was degrading for him to be so absolutely helpless and subject to her power. His wife's wonderful, plump thighs around him, now only threatening him with their mighty power, her constantly drooling pussy in front of him, her bush, a matted tangle of wire above him, further up, her taut, smooth belly, mostly invisible to him, then her perfect bare breasts with their pink nipples in the distance. Even further behind, however, the worst: her observant gaze, selfish, ruthless, and somehow now also ice-cold! Her condescending grin.

Did she even love him anymore?

For him, the whole thing was an experience he could never have imagined. At least not the sight of this superiority of her enormous female body, which destroyed his human dignity, and the feeling of his absolute helplessness, trapped in her cunt. At the mercy of her perverse lust, his increasing desperation, which she instilled in him down there as she tested him so persistently, obtrusively.

Opposites! Sex and horror! His beautiful Katrin was coming. It wasn't as painful for him as it usually was when she pressed him into her vulva during her orgasm. But it wasn't pleasant for him now either; he couldn't ignore her massage of that clitoris. Despite his eyes being closed because of this ugly sight, he couldn't ignore it, because he heard it from close up. The frequency of her slipping rubbing directly above him increased more and more, until her vagina began to contract around him, immediately with force, once, the second time... She, right at the top, had already begun to whimper for seconds, then almost scream with bliss.

And the fact that he was being squeezed in there again was probably part of their sex now. But it wasn't nearly as painful as being squeezed into her vulva by her fingers, because his still-muscular legs were tough.

He had already learned to fear her vulva, and now her vagina too. What else could come? He wondered.

He had no idea that, as she always did during sex, she had once again thought of all sorts of things during her play with him.

It would certainly be particularly interesting for him, if he knew, that she was also thinking about renting him out, Paulchen, her treasure!

At first, she actually thought about something that could have been pretty much irrelevant to Paulchen. During sex, she thought about her dire financial situation. And then, after many other completely different images, she imagined Paulchen inside her friend. And then, of course, she wondered what that would do to her friend, Paulchen inside her pussy? If it gave her so much pleasure, what would her naturally horny friend do to have fun with Paulchen? How much would she pay to play with Paulchen? Per hour? Per day? Per vacation? She didn't think her idea was a bad one; her friend had money to spare. By the hour? Why not? Her friend was an honest soul. Katrin would always get Paulchen back from her. Absolutely sure.

She had now finally demoted him to a masturbation tool for her vagina, the true center of her pleasure. And she realized that her secret treasure was worth far more than its weight in gold.