It was nearing midday. The room was bright, vast, and exposed.
I was standing on a thick, fuzzy, blue field of clumpy, shaggy grass. Where the field ended, there was a stack of fallen white lumber, across from that, a huge tank with a label stuck around it displaying a long list of esoteric words straight out of an organic chemist's dictionary.
Across from that stood a water tower, wide at the base and tapering up into a white top. The body of the tower was transparent, revealing it was three quarters full with a swimming pool volume of water. A tube ran horizontally from the white top down through the water, to the base.
There was a flush of cool air as a gigantic hand swept over my head, bigger and faster than a crop duster, and dived down to grasp one of the white logs up between finger and thumb. Another hand reached for the labelled tank, which was then unloosened from the ground as if by tornado, where it levitated in the air directly above my head, while its top was twisted off. Clenching my jaw, I stood still, uncomfortably aware that if the tank dropped, it would squash me flat. A moment later it was returned to its former position across from the blue fuzzy field, and its unscrewed top came to rest beside it.
The white log that had been taken now dipped down into the opened tank, and when it withdrew again, the flaxen nub shone with a dollop of shining gelatine fluid. It was a giant Q-tip covered with a drop of sanitizing body wash.
The blue grass field was actually a microfiber towel, folded and arranged on one end of the kitchen table. The microfiber didn’t just protect the table surface from body wash spillage, it also craftily prevented me from moving around too much. As I walked, my feet sunk into the soft blue tufts and it swirled around my legs. I had to wade through it like spongy marsh reeds, making it incredibly difficult to run away.
As the shining tip started making its way over the table towards where I was standing, Jennifer’s visage – which had been hovering high up – now descended upon me, moving in unnaturally close, like she intended to touch the tip of her nose to me, but stopping short. She was hunkered over the kitchen table, as low as she could possibly get. Her powerful breath bombarded me, lashing my face and front with warm air which fanned through my hair, slamming me almost with the force of a dull smack, and sending my dick and balls bobbing and swinging, and the startling proximity of her lips caused an incredible vacuum to roar up my shaft, stretching it with the compulsion of an invisible hand, igniting a ticklish throbbing in my hips.
I quickly cupped my groin. She was so focused in the task at hand she didn’t acknowledge it, and anyway, she’d done this several times before now, daily, in fact, since my recent miniaturization.
The fingers of her other hand snaked around behind me instinctively, but careful not to touch me. A gesture that could have been protective, or alternatively, restrictive.
“HOLD STILL…” she murmured, but even at this reduced volume her voice made my temples throb.
She’d rotated the lumber-sized Q-tip into a pencil grip with the soft nub sticking out, pointing at me.
Closing my eyes and willing my mind blank, I stood utterly still, sensing from behind my eyelids the end of the white ‘log’ thrusting at me like a battering ram until it was very close.
The lotion on the end of the Q-tip smelled like pine trees, while the scent of vanilla emanated from her fingertips. Not the commercially watered-down sugary vanilla of ice cream, but something rich, raw, pure and exotic, closer to the unadulterated spice as it must have originally been discovered in the jungles of Central America. And now, possibly even more intoxicating.
The fine point at the very tip of the white cotton head made contact with my front, and began painting its lotion over my chest and arms, then down my front, and briefly rolling over my twinging groin. The cold gel made my balls prickle, but at least the clear sticky resin caused my dick and ballsack to adhere to my thighs, and stop it bouncing around with the powerful surrounding air flow.
Lastly, the cotton probe slid down and around my legs.
At small scale, the cotton fibers felt less like thin filaments and more like threads of wool wrapped around the plastic shaft. Reaching the end of my legs, the cotton tip repeated its journey in reverse, smoothing the lotion up my legs, bumping over my bulge – my lathered penis briefly sticking and being lifted up towards my belly – and finally running up over my abdomen, before halting at my chest.
"I'M GETTING PRETTY GOOD AT THIS, HUH?" her voice thundered against me, her mouth quirking with a self-satisfied smile. “I DIDN’T EVEN KNOCK YOU OVER ONCE!”
Or worse. Six days ago, when washing me she’d accidentally covered the Q-tip nub in too much lotion, so when the tip made contact with my body, I’d gotten plastered onto it and, when she’d drawn her hand back again, I’d rocketed up into the air with it, glued to the end of the Q-tip. She’d then had to use another Q-tip to brush me off, making me feel like a bug being attacked by chopsticks.
But it was true: she’d gotten much better in the days since. I couldn’t imagine how delicate and precise she had to be to perform these motions, and judging from the long pauses between sweeping warm gusts, she was holding her breath for most of it.
“OKAY, TURN AROUND,” she instructed, having finished lathering up my front.
Opening my eyes , I stepped around in a circle until she was at my back, and now was facing the fingertips of her other hand, which lay upon the table in front of me, like a series of long fleshy ridges.
The pressure of the Q-tip returned, now at the back of my head, and moving down my shoulders and back, sliding over my buttocks and down my legs, plastering its gooey gel as it went. It had the pressure of someone leaning into me, but not enough to push me off my feet. With eyes closed, I liked to imagine I was normal size and she was kneading the lotion up and down into my bare skin with her forearms. Of course the illusion was shattered opening my eyes to see her massively blown up hand lying before me.
Reaching my ankles, the nub travelled back up, smoothing the gel up my legs, butt, up my spine, and once more making contact with my scalp, before drawing away again.
“BACK AROUND,” came the rumbling voice, now higher up as she had raised herself a little off the tabletop.
I turned again to face the human mountain as she rotated the Q-tip between her fingers and dipped the opposite end into the tub of lotion for another drop of gel. Then the sublimely-sized visage began to descend over the microfiber cloth again, the white bulb coming closer and closer, seeking me out with its battering ram motion once again.
I stared up at her desperately. To my surprise, she caught me looking at her, or at least the cotton tip halted, while her look of concentration broke.
Her eyes held on me, the black fans of lashes descended almost imperceptibly; a lingering thoughtful look that in any other context would have caught me off guard and effectively wrested me away from wherever my mind was.
But now my heart was speeding up as the rest of the world seemed to speed away; dissipating into mist in the corners of my vision.
The great shiny masses of her lips seemed to swell towards me as she puckered them, advancing as if to kiss me. A jolt of terror clutched my chest as I realized with plummeting, dreadful acceptance that her passion had finally lost all its patience and now her lips were swooping in to claim my life.
Then, with a smooching sound she stopped short and her eyes fluttered open and surveyed me with anticipation.
“NOW YOU GIVE ME A KISS.”
As my heart palpitated in relief, I pressed kisses into my hands and made a big gesture of pretending to throw them up at her. In response, she flashed me a cute grin in spite of herself, and began to bring the Q-tip back over.
As she bent her head over me a little more, a strand of loose hair came tumbling down and glued itself against the sticky lotion covering my body. A burst of shampoo fragrance clouded my senses and I froze in alarm. If she raised her head, it would crane-lift me up off the table, and if she turned her head, I would go flicking off across the table.
Luckily, she noticed. Her brows drew and she made a small grunt of irritation, finely plucking the hair off me and sweeping it back again. Without pause, she stood from her chair, and left the room to find a hair tie, returning with her long hair pulled back in a ponytail.
Dropping her great upper body in front of me again, she took up the Q-tip from the blue cloth. Then the dazzling green eyes rained down onto me, intensifying, and I shrunk under their focus. The cotton tip came waving in at me; I tracked it with my eyes, my hands rubbing together, almost crushing my own fingers. I knew what was coming next and didn’t like it.
She paused, maybe sensing my discomfort, or recalling it from previous instances of this same routine. This was usually the time I’d twist around and try to bolt across the table, though escape was futile when she could effortlessly barricade me with a curled pinky finger.
“JUST STAND ABSOLUTELY STILL,” she said, “AND I’LL BE AS GENTLE AS I CAN.”
I put my hands up, palms facing her, and shook my head, taking steps back.
She just stared down at me impatiently, while a short stream of warm breath issued from her nostrils, bringing to mind a bull being teased. The sauna of her warm breath was already beginning to dry the sheen of lotion on my body.
Her urgent voice shook the air and rattled my skull:
"I DON'T WANT ANYONE TO SEE YOUR FACE COVERED IN DUST LIKE YOU'RE SOME PIECE OF LINT.” Then added coolly: “EVEN IF IT'S TRUE THAT YOU SPEND HALF THE DAY INSIDE MY BELLYBUTTON."
“That’s not dust!” I shot back, “That’s my beard!” I couldn’t shave at my size so my stubble had started getting scruffy.
She gave the cotton tip a tiny, disciplinary shake in my direction.
"SHUSH, YOU."
I dropped silent.
"LET ME DO THIS."
Suddenly she sat up and her head jerked sideways, the long ponytail whipping around, and the sound of a muted explosion – like dynamite blowing up underground – as she directed a sneeze into her shoulder.
I flinched and my throat tightened. Thick flying tresses had just whirled past my face like helicopter blades, almost flinging me into space.
"Maybe you should make damn sure that sneeze is not planning an encore!" I grimaced, huddling up as if to take up even less physical space.
She rubbed her nose with the back of her wrist, and shook her head.
"IT'S FINE,” she said flippantly. “DON’T WORRY. MAYBE THINKING ABOUT DUST AND LINT MADE IT HAPPEN."
And maybe, I thought, a little desperate, if it happened again and she blew me across the table it would give me a running start to escape.
She again held my gaze with intensity and no remorse, looking at but not really seeing my terrified expression, just seeing my face as another surface of my tiny body to be polished with the gelatine slush. Meanwhile, the cotton tip was stubbornly drawing closer, with delicate motions calibrating the angle to my face. This required intense concentration because, from her perspective, my head was little more than a dot.
As the white tip of the cotton nub bulged big in my line of sight, I shut my eyes and my toes dug hard into the microfiber cloth. Right then, the bulb impacted my brow and began to jab around my face. The first impact caused my head to snap back a little, like a shove, and as the probe carried on, its motions didn’t become any gentler than a slap in the head by a great lion’s paw.
At the same time, my face was quickly being coated up in the sticky lather which, at my diminutive size, had a fair bit more surface tension, making the gel hang onto my head like a bubble.
It felt like a plasterer was slapping cold clay over my face, trying to mold it for a cast, running a big bulky palm around my facial features, practically pounding and battering them flat. I had to hold my breath as the pine scented gel sealed my mouth and nostrils, though I was capable of doing that for a long time; a weird side-effect of my miniaturization. I held my breath and began to count as the cold, thick weight continued to press against my eyelids, and clogged up my ears. The cotton tip tapped and swirled around my head, simultaneously wiping off the existing lather, while at the same time, smearing a new coat on, and all around.
My head felt very cold and slimy now. I stood in darkness, aware only of the Q-tip banging around my face. Needing it to end, I shook my head frantically, waving my arms. Without argument, the white pole nudging the side of my head disappeared.
My head was thoroughly lathered up now, anyway, sealed away inside one big goopy blob. My eyelids fluttered as I tried to see through the veil of lotion, though it stung my eyes.
The immense shadowy form of Jennifer’s upper body was now reaching across to grasp the giant object that looked like a transparent water tower with a white top. Actually it was a generic unlabelled plastic spray bottle. The white top was a basic depressor, like found on a spray-on deodorant, rather than a trigger spray head.
“ALMOST DONE, BABY.” Her voice resonated through the jelly, causing it to jiggle. “YOU’RE DOING GREAT. JUST KEEP BEING PATIENT FOR ME.”
She seemed to enjoy this next part. Normally I enjoyed it, too, if only because it signalled the end of the ‘bath.’ Or I usually did, but now I was skittish again, jerking around to watch the bottle lift up and rotate in the air, wading my feet through the shaggy microfiber as I paced around.
I wanted to yell at her to be careful, but the lotion had my lips glued shut.
Her eyes flicked back down to me.
“IT’S JUST WATER,” she reassured me, biting her lip to keep from smiling.
She was referring to the fact that, yesterday, while washing me, she'd accidentally blasted me with the wrong bottle. After aiming the first spray down at me, she’d wondered why I began hopping around, yelling and rubbing my face with the back of my arms.
She kept two identical-looking bottles, one filled with water to be used to wash me. The other was filled with pure lemon juice. At my previous shrunken size, whenever I’d craved some ‘me time’ and gone and hid from her in some confined space – such as under the sofa or behind a cabinet – she’d use the lemon juice to fire off ‘warning shots’ and flush me out again. She’d never hit me face-on with it, though, only to fill my immediate airspace with a sour disagreeable tang.
At my current smaller size, and correspondingly more delicate condition, being sprayed full-on with the lemon juice had been like having a canister of tear gas thrown at my head. My nose and my bloodshot eyes had been leaking for twenty minutes afterward, trying to bleed the caustic substance out via hot, stinging tears.
She had now aimed the nozzle up over my head, tilting it down, before depressing the top with her index finger. Thick, cold mist enveloped me, dripping down my body and causing the gel over my face to glaze. I knew immediately it was not lemon juice, and my shoulders sagged with relief.
She applied another few sprays, and then moved the bottle around to get my back. The nozzle continued to shift as it gave me another few blasts. From short distance, each blast sounded like a snare drum strike. To think it was only whisper soft to her.
The aerosolized water pattered against me like soft pellets, and the force of the spray cleared the remaining clumps of gel off my face and body, and dispelling the concentration of pine scent to a moderate trace.
As I wiped myself down, she put the spray bottle to one side, and then it was just her voice that rained down on me:
“DID YOU HAVE ENOUGH TO EAT EARLIER?”
“Yes!” I grunted, feeling self-conscious.
Ever since I’d been like this, she’d grown an obsession over my diet, specifically whether I was eating enough. Probably because I ate so little and she could barely make out my face while I chewed, or my belly filling up, it was difficult for her to monitor exactly how much I was ingesting. At mealtimes, she presented me with piles of food shavings that I could barely finish, and later, taking the food back, poked at the generous remainder with a toothpick to forensically analyze how much I’d eaten – or if I’d even touched it – as if I might have been stashing it uneaten in a miniature flowerpot somewhere.
“JUST CHECKING,” she drawled, now reaching for something else. “NOW TIME TO BRUSH YOUR TEETH.”
At mouse size I’d brushed with an interdental brush, which came in a range of increasingly small sizes, but even the smallest brush head was bigger than I currently was, so we used a different method.
Her fingertips had plucked up a single toothbrush bristle, coated in a film of toothpaste. The bristle was brought down and held in place before me, while I approached it, wrapped my mouth around it and chewed on it for a couple of minutes. Then she squirted me with some more water; while I opened my mouth and caught some to rinse out with.
*
Later that day, a call came through from a prosecutor's office, with the sole enquiry: would I be attending court to provide evidence in the trial against one accused, Samantha J. Freddi? Jen fielded the call, since my voice tended to translate into a shrill unintelligible buzz over the phone.
“NO, I DON’T THINK YOU UNDERSTAND,” she was saying, for the third time, “JERRY IS ACTUALLY SO TINY THAT I COULD HAVE HIM BALANCE PERFECTLY ON MY PINKY NAIL…WITH SPACE LEFT OVER…”
Once she established that she was my guardian and that I was tenfold tinier than they realized, they didn't ask to speak to me.
They called back to say the trial could proceed without my involvement; the private investigators who discovered me would provide evidence on my behalf.
"IT'S BETTER IF YOU DON'T SEE THAT WOMAN EVER AGAIN," Jen concluded afterwards. "YOU DON'T NEED THAT RIGHT NOW."
Deep down I was relieved; not wanting to dredge up all the scandalous details of my containment to a bunch of strangers.