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This story is mostly true.

 

I went to visit a friend in Lyon a few summers back in 2010. As he was at University for some of the time during my visit, I busied myself with the all and any of the tourist attractions that the city had to offer.

 

You can imagine my glee when I stumbled across this:

 

http://www.mimlyon.com/ 'The Musée Miniature et Cinéma'.

 

The lobby was full of lots of teasing little scale models of various unusal and altogether everyday scenes.  A little French farm house kitchen perhaps, or an old Victorian library, maybe a tiny restaurant or a beautifully decked out theatre.

 

Either way they were all delightful, as was the homely looking French girl behind the counter. She had a pretty round face framed by abundant loose curls of black hair. It fell delicately past her green oval eyes, around the pout of her lips and settled in the nape of her rather considerable bosom. She had the appearance of regency milkmaid, the sort that would welcome you in from a hard day’s work on the farm wearing nothing but an apron.

 

Needless to say, buoyed by being a foreigner in a strange land, I attempted a little flirting. Considering my school boy French and her total lack of English, things went rather well. Eyelashes where batted, coy grins where affected and bosoms certainly heaved...

 

A ticket purchased, and the flirting on hold, I busied myself exploring the many levels of the old brick warehouse that housed the collection.

 

What I found were exquisite exhibits containing scaled down versions of anything you could imagine. In fact other miniaturists from around the world had donated items that even matched the workmanship of the museums founder. This led to sexy exhibits of tiny shoes ranging from half scale clogs to heeled Tinkerbell-scale evening wear. There were collections of tiny cars, doll sized working industrial machinery and possibly most enticing, the collection of scaled down clothing.

 

Apart from the usual array of dolls sized costume, both modern and period, what most took my eye was a collection of tiny lace lingerie pieces. It was scaled for women barely bigger than 3-4 inches and had the most intricate detail I could ever have imagined. They'd been donated by a Madame Lisle and cut a rather unassuming figure in small glass case tucked away in a dusty corner. It was as if they shouldn't be overly advertised, in case public knowledge of their existence would break their magic.

 

Once I pulled myself away from them. I had to empty my head of thoughts of the tiny women that could wear them in the process. I managed to extract the last cent from my 6 euro entrance fee in the form of the 'Movie' exhibit. If anything it was just a bad collection of props from mainly 80s sci-fi movies. The sort of exhibit the phrase ‘tacked-on’ was invented for.

 

The fact that I failed to see the girls reflection in the glass, or avoid the beam that emanated from one of the more tacky looking ‘props’ in the collection, wasn't testament their interest, more to my inherent carelessness.

 

I'd never wished I'd studied harder in my French classes at school then at that moment when a couple of huge digits plucked me off the floor.

 

'J'ai toujours voulu un homme, mais n'ai jamais pu trouver celui que j'ai aimé' she whispers as I was dangled in front of her eyes. 'Vous êtes parfait!'

 

And that was that.

 

I would have mentioned all of this earlier but it's hard for me to get enough time, and frankly uncensored access too, the internet at my size. Even as I type there's a giggling chorus of 3.5 inch ballerinas breathing down my neck. Besides, have you tried typing when you're this height? I consider it one of the best work outs I get nowadays!

 

So what else is there for a young, virile, 3.82 inch Englishman to tell you...

 

I could start with my French. It’s improved exponentially since I was resized so rudely all those months ago. My improvement may be more down to Isabelle's 'private tutoring' than anything else. I can assure you it didn't take me long to pick up 'seins', 'mamelons' and 'fesses', but that's another story entirely.

 

She was right about one thing as well, when she plucked me off that cold floor, there really isn’t any other men here. I was the first to be shrunk! Madame and Monsieur Lisle had originally only wanted female models for her bespoke doll dress clothing business. Izzy had apparently taken matters, and indeed me, into her own hands.

 

Thankfully after a stern chastisement by her superiors I was permitted to continue being as I was, as long as I didn't distract the girls too much.

 

 If only they knew the half of it!

 

Having amassed quite the collected, as The Lisle’s had over the years I felt like the last man on earth, or at least the counter top. Haughty Parisians, busty exchange students from the Germanic nations, athletic 3rd generation Algerians, rural girls with a hint of Breton in their whimpers or even the occasional willowy Russian model all found themselves turning their attentions to me.

 

It wasn't purely desperation you understand. I am still young, rather athletic with a cheeky lopsided grin. Our isolation just helps grease the wheels of passion somewhat. Although it's expressly forbidden, who's going to notice if Izzy sneaks a few of 'The Collection' back to her place in the deep pockets of her coat. Who would even notice if they did catch us anyway? Isabelle assures me that no matter how hard we exert ourselves, on or off her body, a couple of 'souris' could do a better job of getting you attention.

 

As emasculating as being compared to a mouse was, when you spend every other night lazing back in the cup of a giant bra, a new girl on your arm, gazing up at the one of the sauciest women you've ever met, as she tucks you in with a pair of her used panties…well it’s hard to see the downside to all this really. When you’re informed only minutes after your stature has been snatched away that the change is ‘délicieusement permanente’, you have to stand your tiny corner for all the perks you can get.

 

In fact she’s very open with us as long as we test anything we want to try out on her first!

 

Anyway I really must go, Kimberly and Courtney or ‘mes petits jouets pour le bain’ as Izzy calls them, are practically dragging me off the keyboard! If somebody they could manage it would be those two. They were both ex-swimmers for a prestigious American College before a gala out here found them swimming lengths in the kitchen sink! It’s no wonder Izzy likes to share a bathtub with them!

 

Hopefully I can write again soon, but if not then steer clear of any heavy set young French girls willing to bat their considerable eyelashes at you. It could all end in tiny tears, or at least miniature screams of pleasure.

 

Consider my permanent vacation a warning to you all…

 

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