We were headed into the inner city.

Jennifer drove, with me squeezed in place between her thighs. Normally she let me ride shotgun in a specially made harness, except when we were doing something new, or she was anxious. Today, it was both.

It was unfortunate I could not drive; I was the patient, considerate driver. She was not. With reckless abandon she pounced on gaps, openings, and head starts, as if these scored you bonus points in a standard driver’s test. When I, normal size, had driven her, she’d given cocky drivers’ scandalized death glares from the passenger seat and tapped me, urging things like, ‘You see that, guy? – Beep him!’ and then reached over and slapped the horn because I never did. Yet, if an irate driver had marched up to my window and tried to wrench me out of the car, I didn’t have the same confidence that I could karate chop him.

Now, from my low vantage point at seat level the speedometer was too high up to see, and probably that was a good thing. Under her watch the red needle tended to creep up and up. And at my size, the forces of physics felt amplified, making turns feel like riding a crazy mouse coaster. Each sharp turn her thighs would grip me even tighter. Then the thigh muscles flexed subtly against my ribcage every time she prodded the accelerator down, or relieved it. Each tap of the brakes was accompanied by my chest being scrunched inwards. At one point, a rapid, last second application of pressure to the brake pumped my chest between her thighs so fast it winded me. There was a tiny breathless squeak as the air whooshed out of my lungs, and I squirmed frantically, fighting the pressure of her legs to try and get my chest to expand back to normal size.

“OOPS,” she murmured, reaching one hand down from the steering wheel to brush a couple of soft fingertips against my scalp, “SORRY. FELT YOU SQUISH A LITTLE THERE. IT’S THE TRAFFIC…”

The morning commute sounds played around over my head while, caught in place between her brawny thighs, constant vibrations ran through my tiny body from the bumpy road contact. Not uncomfortable, actually like sitting in an electric massage chair. The vibration of my butt cheeks and lower spine was a little tender though. Luckily her vibrating thighs were not pressed against my lower front, otherwise it probably would have enlivened my dick, and I really didn’t need to make such a memorable first impression on my breakfast host.

We were in an uptown, leafy green part of the city, with plenty of walking space, and a quiet day, so Jen had no hesitation carrying me up the paved streets in her hand. Some guys’ made eyes at Jen and, passing, their heads swivelled to follow, but they didn’t notice me. She kept her eyes front but she must have noticed them. She pulled me in a little closer to her body until I was sheltered just below her bust, while her thumb began to stroke my spine.

I had my own apprehensions to contend with. From the elevation of her hand, the green maples came at me with a lurch of déjà vu: it was somewhere around these park-lined, open paved streets that I had sat up in a rooftop café on my first date with Samantha. As to how well that turned out, I was pretty sure she was in a courtroom somewhere turning the charm up to eleven to convince some antediluvian old judge out of rapping her with prison time.

It turned out the venue was past the maple park, down a narrow street lined with ethnic food houses and bright signs. It was uptown, but not on stage; the narrow streets and terraced façades provided a measure of privacy. The destination was a breakfast house called Nineteen39 with black and white façade, plain white sign with typewriter font, housed in a building so inconspicuous and narrow we missed it the first time until the lot numbers had us turn back to find it had unexpectedly materialized in a lot we thought we’d already checked.

We headed inside; the café was bigger on the inside, extending out into outdoor dining space. A man in a casual suit and Ray-Bans, sitting at one of the closer tables looked up from his phone call and waved us over to a table at the side, in the corner.  He was bald with tanned skin, a pencil line chin strap beard and moustache, and expressive, fast-moving eyes that made him look younger than he probably was – either that, or the half-drunk espresso on the table in front of him was not nearly his first for the day.

He stared at me as we approached, his eyes lit up.

“JERRY!” he said as if we knew each other – but admittedly not an unusual reaction for a stranger ever since I’d done a TV special on my miniature condition.

I wrenched my arm out of my containment in Jennifer’s fist and went to thrust my hand into the air so he could shake it between his fingertips but he was too fast for me. His huge fist was already swinging through the air towards me, his pointer finger slightly extended, making a curled up hook at my chest level. I stared at it a little disconcerted; it looked like he was aiming to punch me with a pointer knuckle jab, but then he said:

"BUMP ME, LI'L BRO."

I bumped my fist into his knuckle.

"FARRIS FRANKLIN,” he introduced himself, lowering his hand again. “FARRIS, NOT FERRIS LIKE FERRIS BUELLER. DON'T QUOTE IT TO ME; I KNOW ALL THE QUOTES."

He briskly pulled out a seat at the table for Jennifer, and went around the other side, sliding into seat opposite her. The polished wooden table surface came up under my feet as she took her seat and placed me down directly in front of her.

“This is my fiancée, Jennifer,” I said, patting her hand which was resting on the table against me. It suddenly occurred to me that I was leaning on the back of her hand like the armrest of a sofa. I quickly scooted away and sat up straight, concentrating on Farris’ face, trying to model my features on his; cool and friendly, but not unbusinesslike.

“AH, YOU’RE THE OTHER HALF,” he nodded, shaking her hand over the table. “AND LET ME GUESS, YOU’RE THE ONE WHO PULLS ALL THE STRINGS.”

“NO,” Jen replied. “ONLY MOST OF THEM.”

Farris grinned and then his voice was firing down at me again:

“JERRY, YOU’VE BEEN ON MY MIND. BUT YOU HAD ME STRAPPING ON MY NIKES TRYING TO FLAG YOU DOWN." He had his arms over the table, patting the pads of his fingertips together idly. His eyebrow quirked. "DON'T YOU READ EMAILS?"

"I was sick last week," I replied, after a pause. 

He shook his head.

“AND I WAS IN MADRID LAST WEEK – TRUE. BUT I’M BACK, AND YOU’RE BETTER. LISTEN: ARM YOURSELF WITH AN IPHONE AND DON’T EVER LEAVE THE HOUSE WITHOUT IT. WANNA TALK ABOUT WHAT I DO: I’M WITH A MIDSIZE TALENT AGENCY AND AT THE MOMENT WE’RE IN NEGOTIATIONS WITH A FILM PRODUCER WHO MAY BE INTERESTED IN SIGNING YOU ON FOR SOME WORK.”

It didn’t register at first. I stared back at him as if waiting for him to say more.

“YOU MEAN ACTING?” said Jennifer.

“PERFORMING,” Farris clarified.

“Don’t I need some kind of training for that?” I asked.

“YOU'RE A SPECIAL CASE, JERRY,” Farris said. “YOU DON'T HAVE A PRE-EXISTING BODY OF WORK, BUT YOU HAVE A WORKEABLE BODY." He made a vague hand gesture at me, like an up and down wave to connote my size. "YOU'RE UNIQUE AND YOU ALREADY KNOW THAT.”

The young female server passed by our table with cappuccinos which we hadn’t yet asked for – apparently Farris had ordered them for us before we arrived. Mine was in a proportionately correct ceramic mug, and I took it in wonder and appreciation that I could hold it by the handle and drink from it like a normal person. It must have been a toy or something, but it functioned as a cup perfectly fine.

After serving us, the young female server’s eyes got stuck on me. My heart seized up with dread. Then her eyes met Farris and he gave her the faintest of looks, but it seemed to make her pass away again without remark to me. In any other context the woman would have made a small scene over me, except for Farris's subtle intervention. Being recognized in public was one thing but some of these encounters resulted in being picked up, stroked, and even tickled by – usually young women – who totally lost all their scruples about physical contact at the sight of a miniature human being.

My esteem of this guy just kept rising and rising. I gazed back up at him with growing interest.

“THINK: VERY PARTICULAR ROLES,” he was saying. “IF WE COULD CLONE YOU, WE WOULD. BUT THERE’S JUST ONE OF YOU AND MY TEAM WANTS TO SNAP YOU UP.”

“Will I be walking around on movie sets?” I asked, feeling awestruck. Farris interpreted this question as a fitness concern.

“GOOD QUESTION. FILM CREW WILL HAVE PEOPLE TO HELP YOU OUT. BUT STAYING ON TOP OF A FITNESS REGIME'S A WISE MOVE. I CAN LINK YOU UP WITH A PERSONAL TRAINER – ALSO A JERRY, SO YOU ALREADY HAVE SOMETHING IN COMMON.”

“Sure.”

Inwardly, I had no interest taking up this offer, fronting up to a man Jerry to stare down at me, gauging, trying to put himself in my shoes, thinking there but for the grace of God go I.

The other man shifted in his chair.

“I’M BEYOND INFORMATIONAL. DON’T WANNA TURN UP THE PRESSURE, BUT IF YOU’RE INTERESTED YOU NEED TO RACE BACK TO ME ON IT, SO I CAN SET YOU UP.”

A set of tanned knuckles brandished over the table like a speeding car, the fingers unfurling to grasp my hand. We shook while Jennifer was rummaging in her handbag for her purse to pay for our drinks, but Farris put a hand up.

“STOP RIGHT THERE,” he said. “ALL ON ME. I KNOW THE MANAGER.”

He stood up, tucking his chair in.

“HATE TO LEAVE YOU GUYS. GOT A BUSINESS ERRAND. BUT JERRY,” his bright, keen eyes peered into mine as he lifted his Ray-Bans off his head, “THINK ABOUT IT. GET YOURSELF A PHONE AND HIT ME UP. MAKE ME YOUR FIRST CALL.”

He moved towards the front exit.

“KEEP THE MUG,” he said, turning back in the doorway to me before he left. “IT’S YOURS.”

He strode out the café door and headed up the street.

I rotated the mug in my hands to find it stamped with his name, agency and contact details.

We stayed in the coffee house a little while longer, because Jennifer wanted to eat something. She came back to the table with some toast, parts of which she tore off  and tried to feed me. After chewing some I gave up, too distracted to eat. The nerves suppressed my appetite. If I accepted Farris’s offer did that mean I had a job? I hadn’t thought there might be a line of work for someone my size.

“ARE YOU JERRY MOUSSEAU?”

A young female voice gushed from just over my head. Blinking and looked up, I found the young female server standing over the table, gazing down at me. She had returned.

“Yes.”

“FARRIS IS SO COOL – YOU KNOW HIM?” she asked, with rising excitement.

“I do now,” I shrugged.

“CAN I GET A SELFIE WITH YOU?” she asked, already pulling out her smartphone. “I WANT TO PROVE I MET YOU BEFORE YOU GET FAMOUS!”

At this, Jennifer chuckled quietly.

Meanwhile the girl was bending over the other side of the table until her butt was in the air, bringing her face down while she angled the phone in front of her.

“COME HERE A SECOND—”

Suddenly her other arm was covering the distance towards me, and in one swoop her cupped hand hooked around my shoulders and was effortlessly sweeping me away from Jennifer, and towards her own big looming face.

The polished table surface was rolling under my butt before I bumped softly into her cheek and – snap – she took the picture, her fingers fenced around my front with the pressure of her thumb against the back of my head. I lifted an arm and did some air horns as she winked into the camera while taking the second shot.

The enclosure of her hand released me as she rose off the table again. Then she flipped through the shots she’d taken.

“AW, THAT IS SO, SO SWEET!” she mewled, her cheeks slightly pinker. “YOU ARE SUCH A CUTE LITTLE BABY MAN – MY FRIENDS ARE GONNA BE SO JEALOUS I GOT TO TOUCH YOU!”

One of my hands was nipped between her fingertips and lifted in a gentle, grateful shake, before she left the table again.

I stretched my legs out, intending to stay where I was on the opposite side of the table, reminded that this is where I would have been sitting if I’d been normal size. But Jennifer had other ideas. 

Her arm lunged across the table, one curled pointer finger turning upwards not to do the come hither gesture but to hook the long nail up under the bottom of my shirt. Even with my loose fitting clothes there was barely any more room and the hard nail slid in firmly against my bare belly, grazing the healed but still slightly tender incision wound. Then the arm was retracting again, taking me with it, my butt once more sliding over the frictionless table surface until I was back on her side of the table.

The fingertips of her other hand came in to squeeze my shoulders so she could slide her pointer out from against my chest, and as the nail curved out from the hem, it not only irritated my stomach again but inadvertently nudged the crotch of my pants.

The ease with which I could be slid back and forth over the tabletop like a chess piece was unnerving, but I didn’t say anything. My brain was still hung on the talk with Farris.

Her attention returned to her food as she said:

“SO, WHAT ARE YOU THINKING?”

“I’m still trying to figure it out,” I said, tugging and smoothing my shirt down.

“YOU WANNA GO FOR IT OR WHAT?”

“It’s just—”

“OPEN UP, CUTIE—” a corner of buttered toast materialized in front of me, conveyed by a giant hand, and bumped into my lips. Without thinking, I bit off a chunk and started chewing. Satisfied, the hand withdrew again. She said:

“IT’S JUST WHAT?”

“It’s come out of nowhere.”

She paused in thought.

“I DON’T THINK SO,” she said slowly. “THE WORLD IS CATCHING UP WITH SOMETHING I’VE KNOWN FOR A WHILE ALREADY.”

“What’s that?”

One corner of her lips quirked in a smile.

“YOU’RE WORTH HOURS OF ENTERTAINMENT.”

“It’s different. This is in front of lots of people – total strangers. And I need—”

Another torn off toast crumb was bumping my mouth.

“HAVE SOME MORE,” she insisted. “DON’T MAKE ME FINISH IT ON MY OWN.”

I quickly forced it down.

“SORRY, YOU WERE SAYING?”

“Preparation. If they just let me work some things out around it first…”

“YOU’RE HOT STUFF RIGHT NOW,” she shrugged, giving a small nod in the direction of the female server who was across the room, over at the counter. “MAKE THE MOST OF IT.”

She held me still with one hand as her other patted at my face with a napkin. It gave me a flashback to the dab washes, but at my current size, her touch wasn’t nearly as vigorous. Once the paper had stopped stroking around my face, I said:

“I thought you’d try and talk me out of it.”

She frowned faintly.

“WHY?”

“It means being out of the house for hours at a time.”

“SO? YOU’RE CAPABLE OF THAT. YOU’RE DOING IT RIGHT NOW.”

My butt was beginning to get numb on the hard tabletop. I shifted my weight, trying to get comfy again.

After I’d first shrunk, I’d wanted nothing more than to escape Jen’s house, but dating Samantha had shaken my confidence about foraying into the outside world.

“Yeah. Guess I am.”

“YOU WANT IT OR WILL I?” She was referring to the last strip of toast. Then, before I could answer, she shot:

“TRY AND TAKE IT FROM ME.”

And, capturing the toast between her teeth, her head angled down in front of me, closer, until there was contact, and she tried to tickle my face with the tip of the toast. I wrapped my mouth around the end and tugged, trying to tear a tiny piece off. As soon as my jaw closed around the bread, her lips pursed powerfully and the toast was wrenched deeper into her mouth. My head jerked into hers until my face was caught by the crevice between her lips like a baseball in a mitt, and pressed into her big wet pucker, holding it there for a moment by pure sucking force, basting me in her saliva and warm surges of her caffeinated breath.

My head came free with a small wet pop, and I hastily began scrubbing the saliva and tiny toast particles off my cheeks and mouth.

She smiled with exasperation.

“YOU’RE MAKING A LOT OF EXCUSES AND I THINK YOU SHOULD JUST BE MORE LIKE ME AND BE SPONTANEOUS AND HAVE FUN.”

I looked away, not saying anything. She didn’t understand that at my size, you couldn’t afford to be spontaneous. You had to plan everything; even a walk down to the mailbox needed to be timed to avoid being trampled by a passing jogger.

*

Things happened fast, and then it was the night before I was due to leave. I would be staying at an apartment in the city while I worked, coming home every few weeks, if possible.

Jen washed me with a warm hand wipe in preparation for cleaning my stomach wound. I lay on my back on a towel laid on the table, and she hovered over me. Some minutes passed as she kept a small wet sponge pressed to my stomach, then, after my wound was soaked, she began to peel the tape and gauze off. Since she couldn’t touch my torso, she held me still by gently clasping my head between her fingertips – an unavoidably convenient handhold – while her other hand pulled at the bandage which now separated from my flesh as wet cloth.

Luckily, she wasn’t squeamish. But I was a little squeamish, sometimes. Just stupid, minor, harmless things. Such as the slow unwrapping of bandages, not knowing what would be underneath; knitted together new skin, or a huge hole and a raging infection. Not only that, but if anything looked amiss, she would have carted me straight back to the vet for examination.

“Jush…mm…mmmphf,” I muttered, just as the edge of her thumb accidentally slipped around the side of my head and smushed my lips, as well as my nose and one eye.

She quickly corrected her grasp, sliding the thumb back against my temple, brushing my ear back and forth apologetically. At least it was more tolerable than the ‘dab wash’, where I had been so tiny that an accidental slip of her thumb could have squashed me flat.

“Just be careful,” I stammered. It was hard to remember she was capable of being gentle when her hands were so big and tipped with sharp nails.

“SURE,” she murmured, overly focused on what she was doing.

She bent low over me as she inspected the wound, her warm breath swept over my wet skin. It didn’t appear to be so bad; the slash was closed up, the stitches had been removed a couple of days ago. It was red and itchy, but not sore. Satisfied, she took up a pair of tweezers and began plucking at the broken off stray threads of stiches. My stomach twitched every time the tweezer prongs darted close, though she was expertly delicate. Finishing, she decided it didn't need to be covered with bandage anymore, it could be left bare.

“EXCITED YET?” she said, moving to the sofa while I stood on the coffee table.

“It’s excitement or it’s nerves.”

She let out a sigh.

“BIG STEP FOR YOU, HUH?”

“This was always going to happen. I was packing to move away before the Flip party. It’s harder now, but it’s happening, somehow.”

“IT’S HAPPENING,” she repeated, more to herself. Then she went on with a murmur:

“WHAT AM I GOING TO DO WITHOUT MY LITTLE CO-PILOT?”

“Plane’s not going to crash.”

“THE COCKPIT MIGHT GET KIND OF LONELY.” She propped her head up on her hand, observing me coolly beneath her lashes. “THERE’S ALWAYS THAT RETURN FLIGHT.”

“Can we…” I sighed, “…not talk in metaphors?”

“YOU’RE FLYING OVER TOMORROW,” she pointed out. “SO, RELEVANT.”

Then she looked away, uttering a kind of long groan and taking a deep breath. She rubbed her palms over her face and then smoothed her hair.

I stared at her cautiously.

“Are you…okay?”

“YEAH…” She gave me a faint, slightly forced smile. “A LITTLE MEMENTO FOR MY LITTLE MANLET?”

“What kind of memento?”

She squirmed her finger to beckon me.

I padded over to her.

Her hand reared up, snatched me and flipped me onto my back, and my pants were yanked off with a careless downward flick of her thumbnail, which then set upon my thighs and pelvis, wiggling to tickle me, getting as humanly close to my member as possible without actually making contact. As my dick began to harden, I yelped in breathless laughter, kicking and struggling.

Before I could free myself, her tongue was sponging up from my feet, along my bare legs before touching upon my groin, and tugging my member upwards to my stomach as it briefly stuck to the bumpy surface. As my member sprang free again, the wet mass of her tongue carried on up my stomach, and smearing over the incision scarline. The slimy pressure of her tongue’s passage over my abdomen made the scar break out in tingling itchy pain. I huffed in discomfort, next second the red lumpy mass surmounted my chest and humped over my face, burying my vision in warm, bubbly darkness.

The tongue swirled vigorously around until my facial features ached from the stretch, and my eyes and nose ached from being squashed down by the forceful muscle. It’s sticky surface peeled my eyelids and lips back, and indiscriminately ran over my delicate eyeballs and the tip wormed its way into my mouth, flicking up against the roof of my mouth, flattening my own substantially smaller tongue beneath it. As the tip of her tongue departed my mouth, the powerful suction caused a burst of pain to shoot through my head.

Groaning, I tried to sit up, but her shiny nails collected all around my peripheral vision as they attached themselves to my skull to secure my head. My body jerked tense as her lips glommed around my shaft and began to pump it with alarming vacuuming force, so great that it caused my hips to buck back and forth between her mouth and the towel. Her fingers hooked around my legs, drawing them together tight to prevent me from kicking, and in doing so, accidentally stretching me painfully taut until I was reduced to a quivering whimper as the muscles across my body rippled and seized up in a blinding orgasm.

The pressure of her lips remained around my member for a moment longer, as the tip of her tongue toyed with my spent dick, roguishly flicking and nuzzling my aching tip, and gently sucking on my balls, tormenting my desperate need to rest. She indulged in one last unbridled lip-smacking flexion of my length for what seemed like an ungodly long moment, and finally I was let go, sinking back into the towel in utter exhaustion.

As I lay back limply against the table, panting for breath, an alcohol wipe was dabbed over my prickling, sensitive stomach to clean up the bubbly ropes of saliva.

Later, in bed, I curled up against the pillow, with a fold of sheet covering my body, and Jen lying on my other side.

“I DON’T WANT TO TIRE YOU OUT,” she said, as her great form rolling to face me, “YOU NEED TO BE FIT FOR TOMORROW. BUT THAT DOESN’T MEAN WE CAN’T CUDDLE.”

“Of course,” I replied, beginning to shift closer to her, grateful for the offer of warmth and soft affection.

Suddenly my hands were clawing the mattress as I was being dragged by my ankle below the dark ceiling of the blanket. My body inclined, humping up over her warm lush surfaces, and I was quickly disorientated in the darkness. Warm air whispered past me as an arm bumped me, a nail accidentally poking my back as it went to hook under the hem of the expanse of pyjama t-shirt, creating a cave which I was speedily ushered under. The air pressed in, sweltering, balmy, lightly spritzed with body odor as I was trapped beneath both her t-shirt and the blanket. On my other side, her supple midsection seemed to work back and forth all over me, but actually I was being massaged into it.

Still dragged by my ankles, I was whipped up a lush hill. Here, the grasp around my ankles climbed to my ribcage, and, ensconced in her commanding grip, I was manoeuvred back and forth in wild, joyous arcs around the plump mammary. The nipple pricked up and poked me in the face several times as I was bulldozed over her flesh in dizzying laps while she used her other hand to work herself up down below. My lungs pulled at the humid, stuffy air until they ached and my head swam. Her moan of pleasure vibrated against me through her chest wall. The ‘cuddling’ part of the deal was quickly forgotten.

Sweat was making my body slick, and my body slipped a little. The insistent force of fingertips quickly nudged up my chest and captured my neck. But now my throat was accidentally squeezed shut while she manipulated my head against her raw, tender nipple, urging for me to suck on it. I couldn’t speak; my larynx was virtually flattened between two fingerprints. Made stupid by the dwindling air, I lapped and gummed it the nipple like a starving baby animal.

Below, her legs parted, creating a great canyon between her thighs into which her other hand dove to heighten her pleasure. I was rolled from one heaving breast to the other and back again, rising up the mass on either side, urgently being latched onto the aching nipple at the summit, then returned to the previous breast, all the time feeling like a bear trap was viced around my neck.

For all this effort, she let out a wail, while her nails bit into my body, pinning me to her right breast for the duration of her climax. Finally the pressure around my neck subsided as she readjusted her grip of my body. Now that we were both spent, I was summarily poked down into the perspiring pocket of cleavage until hemmed from every side, with only my head sticking out. A pointer finger alighted upon the crown of my head, pushing downwards until the dull pressure of her breasts rolled in place over my cheeks and forehead. In lieu of saying goodnight, the pointer scratched the top of my head affectionately.

My torso swelled and sunk inwards in rhythm with the expansions of her mighty ribcage, which caused the walls of her mammaries to collapse in against me, and relax, over and over. Groaning and straining, feeling like a fish stuck in the slimy gullet of a bigger fish, I fought to get my head to pop free, only for her sleepy pointer to return and poke me down again. A minute later, I repeated this exercise, only to get poked down again. Minutes later, I tried a third time, and now she was asleep, her finger didn’t return. Within another short period, I was asleep too.