February 18th 1967

Dear Diary,
Querido Diario,
Me tuer,

I would have slept through the morning if it were not for Mom's incessant badgering. I had slept peacefully the night before, content knowing the vacation to come would be all that we had dreamed of. But mother vigorously shook me awake, telling me to get up. I protested adamantly – she can't truly be waking me early on the first day – until she said that brother was missing. Tonic shock went through me. I regathered my senses and quickly lost all surprise, and became almost apathetic at the unfolding situation. Mom, in her forgetfulness, perpetually loses my little brother (who, as you certainly recall, is a Dimutiatorius, at approximately 1.5 cm tall). I ignored her pleas and tried to push her away. Waking up at 7 AM just to find Maxi, who will, assuredly, given his history, turn up anyway, was not appealing.

“Mamá,” I moaned, trying to avert my eyes from the light of the room, “Surely you are worried unduly. And besides, I don't know where he is.”
“Mathilde, he was only just here! You must help me search for him.”
“He was on your bed last night...” I said, mincing my words with a sleepy lethargy, “go look for him there.”
“Give rise! Your brother is missing and you are not worried??”
“...”
“Up, dear.”
“No,” I whined. I tried lifting myself up. My arms gave way, and I fell back down. “He'll turn up.”
“Up, or I will not allow you to attend the symphony tonight.”

This woke me straight up, diary. I had been aching to see the London Philharmonic for months on end. When I first heard that they would be traveling to this very city's concert hall, well, I nearly burst from excitement. I managed to convince Mother to let us go, so that I could bear witness to that grand symphony, supplementing our much-needed vacation.

“I'm getting up... I'm getting up... Mamá, have you yet examined your own body for him? It seems every time you even sit down, Maxi ends up stuck to you.”
“Of course, dear. It seems I have not crushed him with my body.”
“Your breasts? Mamá, they are very large. Have you -”
“Yes, Mathilde, I have! I have inspected every inch of my nightgown and flesh. I've even checked to make sure he isn't inside my nipple.”
“...Inside your...? Is that -”
“Mathilde! He isn't on me! Get dressed and go look for him, alright? Oh, and check your own body for him, of course.”

Naturally, I complied with Mamá's hysterical request, and began to undress and probe every inch of my body. I didn't expect to find him on me. I worry about Maxi too, of course, but mother's anxieties can get way out of hand, despite (or perhaps because of?) the fact that it is she herself who usually crushes Maxim without notice.

An example: as you know, Diary, Tinies are not allowed in this Hotel. Mother had to sneak him in from the taxi that brought us here from the airport, and placed him in her back pocket as we checked our reservations at the front desk. This took so long – the only employee present was a young bud – that we forgot about poor little Maxi altogether. Once finally in our room, Mamá must have been sitting on him for hours as we wasted downtime with the television. She only discovered him as she was undressing for the shower!

This is, sadly, a regular occurrence. I think the flattened form of Maxi has been apologetically promised well near 200 trips to the ice-cream store as of writing. It's just as well that we never take him, knowing his bad luck. In our carelessness, he'd likely get eaten by Mamá or me along with a scoopful of ice-cream, or perhaps an oblivious waitress... Such is the life of a Dimutioria. It's quite absurd, really, that after hundreds of years of their existence within the larger Females that we have not yet devised strategies to avoid their accidental untimely deaths, even in their daily lives, but such is such. I can offer no solutions.

Well, diary, I digress. after some time, we concluded that he was probably nowhere to be found within our hotel room or upon/within our bodies, unless one of us unknowingly ingested him in our sleep – my god! This very prospect rattled my Mother's nerves. She insisted that I go post-haste and search for him in the other corridors of the hotel. I could not fathom rationally that Maxi, on his own accord, fancied a walk alone through the halls of the hotel. But I could not reject her request, for that would imply that I believed Maxi was still here, perhaps, in her stomach. And I couldn't bring myself to verbalize the fear, though we both feared it. I quickly dressed out of my pajamas and began to take my leave. She hugged me – or my head - right in between her swelled breasts, as I tried to squirm away (I am quite short, diary, I am embarrassed to say), and I bid her adieu and left the room, wiping from my face the ghost-wake of her breasts.

---

The shadows of the evening lingered in the narrow hallway beside the small glow of the sun from behind the curtains. I thought I was alone in that hall, and, judging from the quiet, that few besides Mamá and I had yet arisen. But a figure emerged from the stairwell across the way. She wore a haute french maid outfit, and was pushing a long a plastic cart with a squeaky wheel, carrying cleaning supplies. I knew then she was a maid, and a surprisingly young and fit one at that. Her outfit was such a revealing thing... It is belittling of the maids to wear it, I think. How can they keep their dignity in those skimpy outfits? This woman in particular wore an outfit much to small for her rather shapely body. Her breasts appeared on the verge of slipping out at the slightest provocation, and it must have been a small miracle that her areolas were not exposed. Her skirt, as well, was short, and her panties were in view at the slightest updraft in the breeze.

You will forgive me for being so frank, diary, but this character bewildered me. I expected her to be quite embarrassed at her appearance, and expected her to harbor within her some sort of smoldering resentment towards her shameful post. Yet, I was mistaken entirely. I am guilty of transplanting my thoughts into her head. No, diary. She is another case entirely.

She greeted my cordially as she walked past, bouncing along with the cart.
“Miss,” I said, “I'm looking for my brother.”
“Your brother?” She inquired. “Don't tell me he's...”
“Dimutiealeon, yes, he is.” She cocked her head.
“Dear, such persons are not allowed here.”
“Um,” I retorted, “but ma'am, what's that?”

I pointed to her chest. I had just noticed that there was a smallish figure at the top of her cleavage. It appeared, indeed, to be a small boy. My hopes rose, that it might be Maxi, and in the recesses of my mind, I began formulating a reprimandation of this maid for placing my brother in her breasts, unfair working conditions and/or lack of pockets aside.

“Ah, this man here?” She said, looking down and blushing. “Oh, heavens! I've been caught red handed!”

She pushed the boy deeper into her cleavage so that he could not be seen. He appeared not to protest, or if he did, it was not visible. I surmise that if he had acted out he could not have moved her very large breasts much by himself. He was rather tiny. So tiny, in fact, that I realized that it could not be dear Maxi trapped in her cleavage.

“I'm sorry, dear. This is, um, a guest of the hotel. I realize we prohibit the Dimutios, but... I...”
“He isn't my brother, is he?” I questioned desperately.
“Oh, I should think not!” She said. “The little one is an independent guest of the hotel. He appeared at our front steps at about seven last night, alone and shivering from the rain. I just couldn't bear to see such a cute little guy suffer, so I offered him a room!”
“A room?”
She giggled at, I presume, me.
“Well, yes, I couldn't let anyone find out about him, so he's staying between my breasts! I daresay he might have the most comfortable room in the hotel.” She giggled once more, and groped herself, squeezing the poor man hidden in her bra. That is, assuming she was wearing one. On recollection, I believe her shoulders were bear, and her chest was really rather prone to bouncing, so perhaps not.
“Yes, yes,” she continued. “He loves it in there.”
“Um, anyway, miss,” I said, taken aback at her display.

“Do you want to play with him too?”

“Er...”

She didn't even bother to keep her voice down in respect of the sleeping guests all around us. Frankly, if nobody ever saw this poor boy (I never got a good glimpse at his age, so forgive me for inconsistencies) between her breasts, her loud mouth would give him away.

“I, er, r-really must find my brother, so I'll be off.” And I really was about to leave, but she stopped me.
“Oh, wait a moment, dear. I must help you find him. It's my duty, and anyway I absolutely love little men. Unless they're naughty of course!” She pulled the man from her cleavage up towards her. “Why, if they're naughty, I might just...” She widened her mouth over the fingers she held the boy in. “Eat them!” He became overcome with fear and jumped from her fingers, tumbling back down into her exposed bosom. She laughed and squeezed her breasts once more, moaning like a street harlot.
“I assure you, my brother is not naughty in the least, and I hope you will not harm him.”
“Oh, deary,” she pouted, “I would never dream of harming them. I'm only kidding!”

She advanced towards me, and I tried to back off, but was too slow. She hugged me straight into those disgustingly huge and bare breasts, diary, and it was an experience I'd rather not repeat, but for your sake I shall at least relate it. I think I must have tried to scream as she hugged me, but the flesh silenced (and suffocated) me. I do not doubt that part of my head was obscured by the hug, for I could see nothing but the darkness of her cleavage as she squeezed me. Once she at last released me, I had to catch my breath for a moment as she grinned like a fool before me. I gagged somewhat, and realized that her “guest” had become lodged in my throat. I suppose he was launched into my almost-screaming mouth during the hug. I quickly bent over and coughed him out into my palm.

“Miss,” I said, still coughing, “please, be more careful...” I handed the nonplussed man to her.
“Oh, my lord! You deviant,” she said, grabbing him out of my hands.
“As long as I am your host, the only woman's mouth you are allowed to be in is mine!” I stood agape as she tossed the man into her mouth and pressed him against her cheek, as if he were a cough drop.
“Now,” she said, her voice a bit broken up as she restrained the man in her cheek with her tongue, “let's find your sweet brother before something happens to him.”

What a nymphomaniac!, I thought. Is this how a respectful woman should treat others? Her essentially sexual rumpus struck me as nauseatingly selfish, impudent, depraved, and, moreover, hugely irrational. No woman can be expected to find a tiny person, stranger or otherwise, and immediately confine him into her cleavage (or preferred sexual cleft), stripping him of his will and her of her decency, purely on a whim, for no reason aside from her own pleasure. Indeed, this maid must be mentally deranged, I thought. But diary, though I wished not to associate myself in this absolute rat's society, I had no choice. Nobody else seemed to be around, and this maid assuredly knew the Hotel like the back of her hand. Or, more accurately, like the top of her chest.

What a pig. She made me ashamed to be female, but proved to be indispensable in the search for Maxi.


Then everyone died.
End of part 1.