The  Game

I watch him run for a while. His tiny form is slowly retreating away from me, at a crawling pace, although I can well see his tiny legs move like crazy. He looks like a little bug scurrying on the wooden floor, between my feet. He’s really going for it, and not really taking the time to look up my skirt. I smile, as he bumps in the flesh of my extended thumb, and falls flat on his back. I see him extend minuscule arms in my direction as my fingers come closer to him. I have to concentrate. The slightest movement could crush him to a pulp.

 Very slowly I stand up and bring him up to my face. I manage to just catch his legs, and try to hold as gently as I can. Of course, he’s not too happy. I guess the pressure must still be pretty unpleasant. And he hangs upside down of course. I see him flail his arms. He’s probably screaming abuse at me, I bring him closer. Now that’s better, I can  clearly make out his face, contorted with fear and rage. It’s so weird. No matter how often I see this, I’m always amazed by the incredible effect of the Breem’s power. This looks like a tiny insect, hardly the size of my nail, yet it is a breathing, thinking, and probably swearing human being. I stay a minute or two watching him writhe, till his arms just go limp. He just stays there looking at me (probably just a tiny part of me) with an open mouth.

I push with my feet the heap of clothes he has emerged from (it took him nearly twenty minutes, he must have gone lost under there). And depositing the little shape in the palm of my hand I walked to the kitchen. I’m pretty hungry, having spent most of the day waiting for him in my car, and I think this is calling for a celebration. The house is quiet, well lit, and would be nearly tidy, but for the first signs of male territoriality that are beginning to show already. Clara has been gone for a week and already empty saucepans and beer bottles are filling the sink and the counter . Tsss, tsss I mentally utter to myself, as I grab a bottle lying on the floor. The little prick was way too used to her toiling around the house.

I open a cupboard and, finding a blue plastic bowl, drop Jeff into it. He slides along the curved side to the bottom. I lay the bowl on the table. I have doubt about the fridge but go for a peek anyway.  I grab some cheddar cheese and a tomato, cut myself some slices of a reasonably fresh cucumber. The little guy in the bowl cannot see any of this but he sure can hear the noise and the feel the vibrations of the table. I decide to drop the tomato slices into the bowl. Jeff jumps frantically aside to avoid the large red slices falling towards him. He succeeds, but get caught in the juices. I bring my face closer and amuse myself at his struggle against the sticky liquid that surrounds him.

“Jeff, you and I have had our differences. You do not like me much, and you know it’s reciprocal. But lets’ bygones be bygones, I say,  and let’s share a little snack together for a change”.
 I see his upturned face staring at me ( at my left eye I think). I smile encouragingly at the little prisoner and offer my little finger as an alternative to his little pond of tomato juice. After a second of hesitation, I can feel his body climbing up on my flesh.  I let him off on the smooth white surface of the table, next to what must seem to him a large brown rock. To me, it’s just a bun on which I start setting the cheese, the cucumber and a slice of tomato.

Jeff is running again, this time toward the edge of the table. Is he catching on with what’s going on? Has he decided to choose his own fate? I chuckle as I drag him back towards me with the threatening metallic wall of my spoon. I spread some mayonnaise (diet type, I have a slim figure and intend to keep it that way. Clara, who shares my concerns and vanity, thankfully only has “light” stuff in her fridge) on my improvised sandwich. Jeff is now trying to go around the various circles of cucumber lying in his path to … freedom? With a flicker of the spoon, I send a little blob of mayo flying in his direction. I am better than I thought and it actually hits him, sending him sprawling on the table, half covered with the yellow stuff. When he tries to stand up, he struggles against the stickiness.

Elbows on the table, and my chin in my hands, I enjoy the diminutive show below me. Brave little man. Full of stamina. No wonder Clara was no match to his big hammy fists. When the spoon scoops him up from the table, there’s hardly anything he can do, though. I see him try to look over the edge. As I bring his little aircraft in a hovering stance over the bun, he turns round , looks at me with horror in his eyes. And when I start inclining the shiny raft  I watch him trying to prevent the fatal slip onto the mayo-covered ingredients. Not that he succeeds of course. He lands without a sound on top of my sandwich, and immediately starts fighting against the mayo to move away. This time I think I actually hear something from his little mouth.

It does becomes clearer as I bring the sandwich to my eyes. The squinting makes me dizzy , but it’s worth the effort to see Jeff’s face as he blabbers something to me, his arms extended, in a begging pause. Man, that must really sting his stinky macho pride to beg to me, his nemesis.  I answer his prayers by passing a whale of a tongue over my lips with a hungry sound. I open seductively a very large mouth and take a slow deliberate bite out of the bun. (I have very good teeth, the dentist tells me, I’m sure Jeff can appreciate that.) I can feel Jeff’s body brushing against my upper lip, as I tear away the bite. Ouch, it was a close one for my little buddy here.

I munch slowly, taking the time to playfully push my prey with my little finger, back to the centre of the sandwich, where it’s nice and moist, on top of a cucumber slice. I bring the bun right under my jaw, close to my neck and swallow noisily. When I look at it again, a small lump of mayo is moving towards the edge...

I bite again. This time I can feel his writhing body squirm right under my lip. I must have missed him by a millimetre. I enjoy pressing him into the bread, wondering fleetingly what noise he hears when I tear away from the bun. I have to make sure he’s still on board the bun, before I start chewing and swallowing. He is, but obviously, there isn’t much space left for him to run now. I open really really wide. And slowly start engulfing the remaining part of the bun into my mouth. This time the squeaking is really audible, as it starts echoing against my palate. I wonder at the view he gets just now, gazing in horror at my messy tongue, and the hungry uvula guarding my throat. I very carefully start to close my mouth. The squeaking gets slightly louder.

I have this pang suddenly. I violently want to feel him going my throat. But I fight the sudden urge (and, yes , sudden arousal, I must say) and, opening up, I go fishing for the lump in my mouth. When I deposit it on the table and  bring my face closer (some of my hair actual touch it, yuk), I stare in surprise: Jeff’s not there. Holding all movements, I pass a tentative tongue around in my mouth. With relief, I feel him in there, stuck to the top of my palate. I carefully fish him with the tip of the tongue and then lick him onto a finger. I look at the trembling little guy in the tip of my index, stuck to it with saliva and visibly shaken by his experience. Damn, I got really close to swallow  the little prick.

“Jeff, you did not seriously think I would eat you, did you now? Come on, I would never do such a thing. I’m not a cannibal. And besides, I have better things to do with my stomach lining.” I ease him off my index onto the table with the tip of the spoon. He just crumples on the floor, sobbing.
“Relax, Jeff, be a man,  it was just a tease. I won’t eat you, of course not, I promise not to ...”

Jeff is turning his face up towards me….

“… but I know someone who might, though.”