We came out from under the bathroom's glowing lights, down the dark hallway, and back into the dimly lit den, where Jennifer and Katie were talking.

Christine returned to her former seat on the sofa again beside Katie. Jennifer followed the blonde woman with her eyes, and now twisted around in her seat, turning her back on the fireplace to face the other women. The firelight danced in her green eyes, which looked at Christine, faintly inquiring. We must have been longer in the bathroom than I realized. I avoided Jen’s gaze, even though she wouldn't have been able to see me, hanging from Christine's earring, in the dim light. In fact, she was probably just trying to work out where I was, seeing as Christine had both hands resting on her lap.

“JERRY’S JUST MADE HIMSELF RIGHT AT HOME ON THE END OF MY EARRING,” Christine explained. “MAKES FOR AN EYE-CATCHING LITTLE ORNAMENT, DON’T YOU THINK?”

She turned her head to let the other two women admire me. At this, Katie’s head swung around to identify where I was, and when her searching eyes alighted on me, making out my tiny face amidst the sparkle of the earring tassels, she gazed at me with astonishment.

“OH, HE LOOKS LIKE A TEENY TARZAN!” she gushed.

“MMM,” said Jennifer, looking away for a moment. “WELL, I HAVE ANOTHER PIECE OF JEWELLERY THAT’S NEEDS ITS CENTERPIECE ORNAMENT BACK NOW, CHRIS, IF YOU DON’T MIND.”

She raised and displayed the back of her hand, the ring finger banded with the clear panther head, and rippled her fingers.

“I HAD A FEELING YOU’D SAY SOMETHING LIKE THAT,” Christine said in undertone. She brought her curled fingers up to her ear, where they bumped around my body, sending me swinging on my chain. As the tassels settled again, the fingers held in place, waiting patiently for me to descend onto them.

“TAKE A LEAP OF FAITH, JERRY,” Christine murmured. “DON’T OVERTHINK IT.”

I let go of the chain, dropping past the tassels, landing onto the spongy flesh of the back of the last joint of a middle finger, near the nail cuticle, and quickly digging my nails in to hold onto what felt like handfuls of soft, creased leather. Christine’s flesh was covered in the faint trace of the clear gel she’d earlier applied in the bathroom. The cool sticky film made my tender, sore palms tingle. My slightly stinging palms were also in contact with the faint throbbing blood vessels beating up through the epidermal layer of Christine’s finger flesh. The warm air rushed around me as the fingertips swept me down to hover parallel to the ample boulders of her chest, outlined by the clinging black dress fabric.

On my opposite side, Jennifer’s titanic black-gowned figure loomed over us, her arm extended with her fingers straightened. She’d unscrewed the panther head from the ring band, so the inner base was exposed, like a flat, inky black podium.

The curled finger I was standing on floated over, lining itself up with the black band encircling Jennifer’s ring finger. Keen to give my inflamed hands and feet a rest, I stood up and made a leap from the end of Christine’s middle finger, onto the black platform. The polished surface felt cool against my stinging soles, providing some relief.

A moment later, the dim orange glow of the den, the majestic black forms of the women, and the entire world disappeared behind a curving glassy wall, capping me all around within an opalescent chamber, except for the small hole positioned at the panther’s throat.

That hole was blocked by the massive pad of a thumb as she screwed the stone head on tight again. I watched anxiously: that hole was my only air source. The walls shimmered as the prismatic chamber revolved completely a number of times, before stopping. The tremendous masses of the fingertips disappeared again, like clouds passing from the sun, letting some light in, though the den was still largely dim. As Jennifer shifted, the flickering orange firelight played like molten lava around the ring's glassy surface. I lay down on the ring base, but it chilled my back, so I hunched up with my legs crossed, ignoring the cool surface prickling against my butt and balls. Holding my head in my hands, I shoved my fingers in my ears as a measure of defence against the clanging voices. Male voices crackled; it sounded as though the guys had returned from their walk and Levi and Katie were now keen to get home before it got too late; Jennifer took this opportunity to make her exit as well. I heard them say goodbye to me, though I couldn’t respond.

Then thudding as the front door shut and the swooping glide of Jennifer’s walking motions. My eyelids started to close…

…car engine grumbling…Jennifer was saying something. I nodded out of habit even though I didn’t understand what she was saying. It sounded like she was telling me a story Katie had told her while I was in the bathroom with Christine. She must have turned the steering wheel because I found myself lifted off my butt and pitched into the side of the ring, before sliding down onto the base again. Her voice carried on over the car engine. I rolled onto my side and my eyes closed again…

*

—Cracks like gunshots.

I jolted up, staring around.

The vast walls of the master bedroom, lit up bright, surrounded me; I was lying on the wood bedside tabletop next to the queen bed. Not far away, an enormous hand rested on the edge of the tabletop, with long nails coated in transparent polish. As I stared, the nails rippled over the wood sharply, recreating the sounds I’d just heard. The wood jittered through my body.

I sat up.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring down at me. She looked ready for bed, had changed into a t-shirt and pyjama shorts. The past week, our bedtime routine was a little weird, to say the least, and I was glad she had not made me demonstrate it before the dinner party. The Scotch tape and scissors were already out, lying all the way on the other side of the bedside table.

But she didn’t make a move just yet. Her impassive eyes were watching me keenly through occasional, unhurried blinks.

I propped my head up.

"What is it?" I said, looking around.

She leaned back smoothly.

"I DON'T KNOW..." Huge plates of varnished nails glimmered distractingly as the mammoth fingertips massaged the bumpy ridge of domed pedestal-like knuckles of the other hand. “JUST THOUGHT I’D SAY…I LOVE YOU.”

“I love you, too,” I said, gazing down at my own knuckles, so comparatively small compared to her that they would be invisible.

When I looked up again she was resting her head on her hand, her long nails now framing around her jaw. The sharp green gaze was levelled down upon me. The cavernous nostrils flared with an extended draw of air that tickled the top of my head, sweeping my hair up. My heart pattered in alarm.

Another rumbling intonation from above:

“YOU THINK IT'S OBVIOUS?”

“To who? – Christine and Tyler—?”

“PEOPLE GENERALLY.”

Another sucking breath sent fingers of cool air through my hair, concluding with the downward pressure of warm air. I slid down, rolled onto my back, needing to feel the solid surface beneath my length. Then, crossing my arms in defence against the chill of another draughty inhale.

"It shouldn’t matter what other people think."

“SHOULDN’T, BUT DOES. YOU WANT TO LIVE IN A BUBBLE WORLD, BUT I DON’T.”

The resonance of her voice beat down upon my bones like I was a drum. My mouth pulled into a frown as I stared up at her face, a vision of feminine features on planetary scale, downturned over me with unbearably intimate focus, the massive green eyes seeming to burn into my insides, laying me wide open; the puny pitter-patter of my seed-sized heart, and queasy coiling of papery-thin guts. Did she see, lying on the table, her boyfriend, or an insect who looked vaguely like her boyfriend? It was so hard to read her expression at this size.

“I’m really busy trying to just be this size right now. I’m trying to adapt.”

“WE BOTH ARE. WE’RE MAKING IT UP – I DON’T HAVE A PLAN EITHER. AND THAT’S OKAY. I DON’T WORRY ABOUT WHAT I CAN’T CONTROL, I FOCUS ON WHAT I CAN CONTROL.”

“You’ve got a lot more control than I do right now.”

She looked away from me finally, rubbing her hand against her cheek. Her brow knitted together. Gazing up at the broad landscape of her face change expression was surreal; I could make out the faint tugs of facial muscles, the subtle shuttering of the black fans of lashes, the drawing together and pursing of her lips, the flaring of nostrils, the rapid, minute skips of her pupils as she thought. Even for this fine grain of detail I couldn’t read her mind; couldn’t work out the thoughts accompanying the inconsequential micro expressions.

“IT’S SCARY DOWN THERE.” Her voice was a low murmur. Her eyes squinted at me like I was a specimen caught in a jar.

I rubbed my arm.

“I’m doing okay.”

“HOW AM I DOING?”

“What do you mean?” 

“WHAT DO I DO TO MAKE IT LESS SCARY?”

“Staring down at me is a little intimidating.”

“SO I STARE UP AT YOU INSTEAD? LIE ON THE GROUND?” She was joking. Still, I said:

“No. Gotta get used to how big you are. Have to keep reminding myself you’re not some giant going to grab me.”

Her low vibrating chuckle made my bones twang sensitively, like they were being tapped with tiny hammers:

“WHAT DO I SAY TO THAT? SOMETIMES I DO WANT TO GRAB YOU…”

She extended her first two fingers, pressed a kiss to the pads and blew it down at me.

The corner of her eyebrow piqued as she considered me. I was held in the floodlamp of her gaze for another long moment, until shivers were arcing up my spinal column. Her fingerpads rubbed together as if her fingers were sparking with pent up energy. She said in undertone:

“I THINK YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I WANT TO KISS YOU.”

I cleared my throat.

“I think I can guess.”

“THE TINIEST SMOOCH,” she ventured. Her mouth curled subtly, even as I could make out the muscles of her cheek straining to repress it. She seemed to be relishing my discomfort. I started to tremble before I could help it.

Like a runaway train, her hand came smoothing over the tabletop to me, the pinky finger splitting off as if rolled over to me, for the curved white plate of the nail tip to prod daintily at my belly and hips. Because I was so light, it slid me back and forth over the smooth table like a tiny chess piece, like I was wearing socks on a polished floor, although my feet were actually bare. Then, the pinky lifted casting me its black shadow as it performed some delicate, clinical manoeuvre around the crown of my skull, positioning itself with attuned accuracy before carefully lowering directly down until the soft springy pad rested on the top of my head and kept me held there beneath its controlled applied pressure, calibrated precisely to be as much as my puny stature could support.

“BACK STRAIGHT, BABE,” she tutted, “YOU NEED ALL THE EXTRA POSTURE YOU CAN GET RIGHT NOW.”

I held my breath so hard my chest hurt; acutely aware that if she overbalanced and her hand slapped down onto the table for support, the pinky pad would drive me straight down into the table until I was glued there like a squished bug.

“This is as straight as I get!” My voice came out pleading.

The pinky lifted from my head, returned to its former position on the table surface before beginning to slid into me, taking me along towards the edge of the table, where her gargantuan form sat waiting patiently for me.

“YOUR VOICE IS SHAKING…ALL BECAUSE I WANT TO GIVE YOU A QUICK  PECK BEFORE BEDTIME?”

I stared wide-eyed at the plush pink ridges from which this gentle teasing was issuing from on loudspeaker. Her teeth beamed out every time she spoke, and they were singularly each bigger than I was, in between glimpses of a rearing red tongue that could toss and spin me like an angry whale if I was unlucky enough to end up slurped into its dark confines.

Her other hand came sweeping in, rotating against the edge of the table, exposing the padded leather surface of the palm, awaiting me as the pinky nail continued to ‘surf’ me over the table. And once I spilled off the table and landed on the palm, it would rapidly elevate me up to her lips. As I dreadfully watched the edge of the table grow closer and closer, my voice came out in an airless, pitiful rush, projecting as loud as I could possibly get it:

“No! I love you but I just don’t think that’s a good idea! Please! Stop!”

I was halted and the open palm rotated back down with resignation. The urging pinky nail slid in front of me, hemming me back away from the table edge again, and then began to again poke me gently back and forth, directionlessly, one way and another, as she contemplated aloud:

“THIS SIZE THING DOESN’T MEAN WE’RE ON PAUSE, MISTER.”

“Of course not. That’s not up for debate.”

The enormous ridges of pink bulged and flexed as she sucked her lips, and they emerged moistened, shining under the bedroom light.

“I’LL GET MY MOMENT,” she said with smug cheeriness. “THAT LITTLE MOUTHWATERING FACE. MY IRRESISTABLE LIPS. IT'LL HAPPEN.” Then, to tease me, she puckered her lips rapidly, making then squish and pop with such sharp wet reverberation that the sound actually made my tiny body throb. I flinched, my balls scrunched up into my body.

With this thought her form seemed to ease. She now began in earnest:

“YOU’RE TIRED; I CAN SEE THAT. A LOT HAPPENED TO YOU TODAY. SO…HOW ABOUT I TUCK YOU IN AND WE CAN TALK MORE TOMORROW?”

“Sounds good,” I said, tired as hell.

She brought her thumb right up against me for me to climb on. Scrabbling my tender palms over her flesh, I mounted the thumb by the long, glossy nail plate.

As she straightened her posture, her thumb then moved inwards against the wall of her stomach, while her other hand rolled her t shirt up to expose her bare midriff. Then she brought the extended thumb parallel with her navel, which doubled up as my bedroom, and held it there patiently. Without hesitation, I bounded off the thumb, through the fleshy opening of the navel which wasn’t much taller than I was, landing on my feet in the loose folds of the interior bellybutton. The wrinkles were lined with fine dust; broken down skin flakes that tended to coat my hands and feet by morning.

It was soft enough to sink into, like a plush leathery mattress. Like being inside a beanbag; forming a cocooning enclosure. Despite the compromising location, it was fantastically comfy and warm, heated by the skin’s thermal activity.

Turning around, I sat down with my back against the navel back wall, which conformed to my shape. The pockets of crinkles were faintly damp from perspiration. Facing out, my perspective from the back of the navel was framed all around by the ovular opening, like I was peering out through a rabbit hole.

A huge sheet of transparent plastic – actually a small square at normal size – was now being affixed over the stomach wall with Scotch tape, covering the navel opening like a glass pane. It was covered in holes from being stabbed with a big needle over and over to create a mesh sheet that filtered air through. The tape was my bedroom door – or window – and it prevented me from accidentally falling out during the night as Jennifer rolled over in her sleep.

Once the tape was in place, the soft folds of the fleshy enclosure stretched and contracted around me as she briefly massaged the tape. The whorls and rings of her fingerprints rolled back and forth over the clear pane, making the bedroom light flicker and flash. 

“LOVE YOU, BABE. YOU KNOW THAT.”

Then the giant bulbs of flesh departed, inadvertently leaving the plastic stamped with fingerprint ridge-shaped oil smudges that shone under the light. The world outside shifted around and tipped back as she slid herself down in bed and then all went dark as she tossed the blanket over herself.

I was lying on my back against the back wall of her navel, and I could tell she was lying on her back, too, though she didn’t sleep on her back. Her blood flow began to increase into excited thrumming all around, the vibrations running through my back, which was cradled by the deepest region of the navel. Her belly began to undulate as her respiration increased, the pressure of her deep breathing closing the walls in around me, then expanding them again.

She was touching herself.

This went on for an extended period, rocking me around in the blackness, slowly escalating as she reached an orgasm. Her hips began to buck, sending whipcrack shudders through my confined black containment, hurling me around between its padded walls and the plastering of plastic framing the blocked exit.

Trying to catch and sync myself with her rise, I rolled over onto my stomach and thrust my aching dick between folds of her navel flesh, fucking myself into her stomach, letting the thrusts of her orgasm and tensing, trembling abdominals seize and clench my dick. Her elevated heartbeat ran through her flesh, throbbing through my member. The soft, perspiration-sticky flesh rolled all around my shaft, and bathed my entire body until I was as slimy as if I’d rolled in mud, and had to keep wiping her oily sweat out of my stinging eyes, but it clung to me; surface tension made it seem more viscous to me because I was so small.

The powerful clenching stomach muscles effortlessly milked me until I was trembling all over and my balls were totally dried up. When I tried to pull my dick out, there was resistance. My appendage seemed to be tangled in some strands of lint that had been buried between crinkles of skin, and the lint was caked in with whatever slimy molds grew deep in this cave. Gritting my teeth, I poked my fingers into the crevice and worked away at freeing my dick before my semen dried and glued the lint to my shaft, keeping me trapped there for good. Tearing some of the lint strands, I managed to slide my now flaccid dick out, and then dropped onto my butt and curled up against the cushioned skin enclosure.

Now that she had come, she rolled over, emitted a great sigh, and wound down to go to sleep. Pulled up tight in a skin fold, and unable to determine up from down anymore, I nestled my head against the soft fleshy wall, and shut my eyes. On the other side, the stomach gurgled and squished right against my ear, then calmed. The folds of flesh, like warm dough, squeezed against me as she breathed deeply, sending me to sleep.