Feb. 1, 2025: There's no babysitter here, but it's the follow-up to the Babysitter story.
We didn’t talk about that day for a long time, that afternoon with the “babysitter.” I disliked that term, and I think that’s why she insisted on it, in part. It rankled me, giving her power over me. It put me in my place, a small, helpless, id-driven thing that relied on her guidance. But also the stigma of an adult fucking a babysitter, an abuse of power, a weak little man succumbing to a trite temptation. I might be overthinking this, but my tiny eyes and my tiny brain are built for picking out details, the inflection in her voice, the flip of her hand, the finality of her conversational closers.
And that’s fine. I mean, I know I fucked up. I gave into temptation when she trusted me. I didn’t actually fuck Maddison’s tongue, but I performed for her, unquestionably. I exposed myself to her and established an inappropriate degree of intimacy, considering my relationship with the Queen. If the Queen can’t trust me for a couple weeks without her around, when can she?
Let the record show, however, that I was the one who insisted on going with her, and she was the one who rummaged through flimsy excuses to go alone. She wanted to go somewhere without me, to spend two weeks without having me on her hands. I betrayed her trust when she left me alone, yes, that’s true, but I didn’t want to be alone. She wanted time without me, and an active mind might wonder why that was.
I’m not going to say anything because I’m still in the doghouse. But those are the facts.
I haven’t seen Maddison since, and I’m guessing I won’t ever again. The Queen doesn’t bring her up anymore when she comes back from a night out with the girls. I’m guessing Maddison has suffered a social degradation on my account. I wish I could apologize to her, but the Queen keeps me on her person at all times and doesn’t permit my communication with anyone else. It’s kind of claustrophobic, this tension, this ongoing refusal of forgiveness. She’s really hammering it into my head that I have absolutely no control over my own life.
Otherwise, the days go by as they normally have. I get my meals of the Queen’s plate, I’m permitted to share her bed—she’s less careful about my presence than she was before, so I’ve got to be careful and not take the chances I did when, you know, I implicitly trusted in her graces. We watch TV in the evening, though our conversation is a little more stilted and academic than it was before. We pick apart the storytelling in what we’re watching, but she does not reciprocate with my jabs and pointed observations anymore.
There’s a considerable vacuum in our environment. I’ve apologized repeatedly, day after day, and she smiles and assures me everything’s fine, water under the bridge. It’s clearly not, and I miss the aspect to my former size that would’ve enabled me to confront her on this obvious ruse. I can only eat shit and play her game for as long as she wants.
Last night was the first break in the routine. For the past three days she’s “trusted” me with staying at home on my own while she goes to work. Before this, I was jammed in her sock, hammocked in her underwear or bra, or sealed up in a pocket while she went to the office. For the last three days she has permitted me to exist in the cavernous house by myself, without supervision. Once a day she calls the extra phone she left me with, and I present myself fully dressed to the camera and report on how much I’ve eaten and gone to the bathroom and what activities I’ve planned for myself for the day, and that’s it until she comes home.
Last night was different, when the Queen brought home company. Not coworkers: “Hi, lover, I was on my way home and I saw a sale at the pet store, so I made a few small purchases! No pun intended.” She plucked me up from the living room couch where I was watching Cunk on Earth and brought me to the kitchen table. Her hands dug into her bag and reemerged in a bowl-shape, opening on the table to reveal two other tiny men, Kobi and Martin. She hadn’t bought them clothes yet; Kobi spotted me and covered his genitals, while Martin smirked and strutted around the table, saying things like “nice place ya got here.”
All right, Queen, I get it. Two can play at this game.
“I’m sure they won’t be here long,” she said, grinning down at us. “Consider this a foster-care situation, yes? But in the meantime, let’s all try to get along and create a happy, warm, loving household.”
Martin waggled his eyebrows at me and echoed “loving.”
The rest of the night unfolded with tedious predictability.
The Queen made dinner and set out a small saucer of food samples for us to dine on: chipped beef, mashed potatoes, a sequence of stewed vegetables. Wherever I knelt, Martin found it necessary to edge into my area and help himself to whatever I was working on. Always with a perfunctory “excuse me, mate,” but essentially following me all around the saucer. Kobi was much less obtrusive, grabbing a mound of food and stepping aside to work on it, while watching the drama warily. When Martin went so far as to scoop my food out of my hands, before I could feed myself, I lost my cool and shoved him into some mashed potatoes.
Oh, such was his outrage. “This is uncalled for! What have I done to deserve this? Did you see that, ____?” Here, he called the Queen by her name. I clenched my jaw and looked away. I have chosen to address the Queen only as “Queen,” but the Queen had apparently given these two newcomers permission to use her given name. Martin’s face lit up when he saw how this liberty bothered me, and he made a point of using her name as often as he could around me. His ploy was obvious, and it took a lot of effort not to buy into it as the evening ground on.
Addressing me, the Queen loomed over the table abruptly, like the rapid onset of a thunderstorm. “Mind yourself, little man. Those aren’t the manners we use in this household.” And before I could defend myself (which I had no intention of doing, seeing well in advance where this was going), she said, “I don’t want to hear any excuses. You behave yourself or you don’t know where you’ll find yourself.” She managed to miss Martin gloating over this, waggling his exposed genitalia at me while chastised me.
To find something else to do, I picked up a large cube of diced carrot, glistening with salted butter, and carried it over to Kobi. “I’m glad there’s a few civilized people around here, anyway,” I said, introducing myself.
He looked at my offering as though I’d wiped my nose in his hand. He actually spat on the carrot. I thought Martin was going to cough up fragments of lung, he was laughing so hard.
I realized there was nothing else to do but just put up with this as long as my Queen felt it amusing to let play out. If it went longer than a week, I always had the option of striking out on my own: I could play nice for a few days, toe the line, and when she went out for another day of work, I would simply slip underneath the front door and take my chances with the neighborhood pets.
I got enough from dinner, I’d be good until tomorrow morning. If not, I kept a cache of nutritive nuggets hidden away. I don’t know why, just some kind of instinct, always having a contingency plan. Maybe I’m part ferret.
The strategy for the rest of the night was to not let Martin get to me. His strategy, of course, was to seek me out and egg me on, find out what he could get away with. And because I was patiently playing the Queen’s game, there were no boundaries to what he could get away with. The Queen actually saw him punch me in the back of the neck, and despite a nervous flinch on her part, she acted like nothing had happened. Kobi watched the two tiny white men tussling in this one-sided battle, unwilling to get involved or look away.
It’s not like I didn’t get my shots in, when I could. The Queen had to excuse herself to go to the bathroom, and I made a point of trotting over to the communal bottle cap for a drink of water. Martin sauntered up behind me, waiting for me to kneel and dip my mouth to the water, ready to nudge me into it. His leg came up, I reached back and twisted his foot how it shouldn’t go, and I climbed his little body until I yoked his neck in my elbow. I guided his face into the water and held him there, the weight of most of my body keeping his nose and mouth submerged.
“Give me an excuse, Martin,” I whispered into his ear. “Keep it up, just give me an excuse.”
I released him when heard her footsteps echoing up the hall, and I put some distance between me and the little creep before she turned the corner. I appeared appropriately chastened as the Queen scolded me for not helping Martin, who had clearly had an accident with the bottle cap. To his credit, Martin didn’t wail about foul play as she dabbed at him with a tissue. From then on, he and Kobi simply kept an eye on me as we killed the rest of the evening and I waited for the inevitable.
This came after a tense hour of watching half a movie, during which the Queen made all three of us sit bunched-up in her lap. She was quite pleased with herself, dandling us individually and rubbing our tiny bodies against each other throughout the film. I don’t even remember what was playing, only the moments she bundled us up in her huge hands like a set of dolls, telling us how cute we were and what a lovely family we made. At some point she rubbed Kobi’s cock in my face, giggling, pretending it was an accident. Martin found an opportunity to shove his ass in my face, which, again, the Queen pretended not to notice. Perhaps she didn’t, but Martin was feeling his oats again, and I let that go for about ten minutes before whispering “just like that, Martin, keep it up.” He settled down again.
But the Queen wasn’t able to focus on the movie either. We watched half of it before she crowed, “Who wants ice cream?” and leaped off the couch to serve it up. We tiny people quickly put distance between each other, poised like wolves in the warmth of where her ass had been. We heard the clank of glass bowls on the kitchen table, and she rushed up to grab us in her hands and hustle us off to the table.
“Who wants to feed me first?” The Queen rested her jaw on the table and opened her beautiful mouth wide for us. My heart lurched: how I missed the raspberry sorbet of her inner cheeks, the rosy, salmon-hued palate as it led to her uvula, the luscious rolls of papillae in rumpled contour down the central seam of her tongue, bunching up in a way that called to my itchy fingers to grab and smooth out and caress …
There was one bowl on the table, vanilla bean ice cream with chocolate sauce drizzled in three efficient streaks. Kobi was shoveling the sauce into his mouth as though he hadn’t eaten in a month. Martin, however, quickly sussed the game and scooped up some of the melted ice cream in his two hands. Smirking at me, he stepped up to the Queen’s fat bottom lip and knelt upon it, leaning his thighs against her lower incisors to dollop the cream onto her tongue. Not only that, he reached in to smear the confection over her taste buds, painting them thickly with vanilla, and managing to waggle his ass at me while doing so.
He stepped back, the mighty jaws slowly closed, and the Queen’s eyelids fluttered in a theatrically dreamlike state as she swirled the ice cream around. “Mmm, so delicious, and such a loyal servant you are!” She preened at the naked man before casting me a dark look. “At least someone knows how to show their Queen some affection.”
I drew a long breath. Maybe I wouldn’t wait a week.
This continued for a quite a while. Even I was surprised she let it play out for so long. I tried to take my turn at scooping some ice cream for her, but Martin managed to shoulder me out of the way, hooking a bare foot around my ankle and knocking me over. “Oh, sorry about that, mate. I’ll get this one,” he chirped, hauling another large dollop—and dribbling melted cream all over the table—to the Queen’s smirking lips.
Kobi, as I said, was bogarting the chocolate syrup like his life depended upon it. He had actually crawled into the bowl and was knees- and elbows-deep in the morass as he scarfed it down. The Queen seemed unaffected by this, and Martin could not see his way clear to comment adversely on the other tiny man’s behavior.
“What a mess you two have made.” The Queen purred at us, fluttering her bedroom eyes unabashedly at her little entourage. “Perhaps you’d like to get cleaned up now?”
I had no mess to speak of. I’d taken two body-checks from Martin before giving up and letting him try to shovel the dessert into the Queen’s waiting maw. There was a napkin nearby, and I wiped myself clean with it. This was all Martin’s show now. Once again, the Queen opened her gorgeous mouth wide, and Martin moaned demonstratively as he clambered over her shiny incisors and threw himself onto her tongue like a honeymoon mattress.
“Oh, you darling little man, I can’t wait to see what you can do,” she crooned. Even at low volume, her voice reverberated through me, and I was glad for the miniature pair of jeans I was wearing, so she couldn’t indulge any further in my torture, seeing the effect of her voice on my cock. It would be hard to leave the Queen, being so connected to her in so many unusual ways, but how could I be worthy of her if I had no self-respect at all?
Martin, for his part, only writhed on her tongue like a fish out of water. He tried to look delighted, for my benefit, but the pool of saliva clearly disgusted him, and he wasn’t sure what to make of her taste buds. This likely was his first time in a woman’s mouth: he glanced at her molars and premolars frequently, and I noted how his smile faltered and faded in cycles. “This is amazing, ____,” he crowed, unconvincingly. “I’m so glad to get to lounge around in your mouth and … do whatever I like.”
“Uh-uh,” she said, her voice booming up from her throat. “I’m going to lick you nice and clean, you rascally little man.” That lasted about two seconds, as she closed her jaws around him and he shrieked as though someone had rammed a red-hot fire poker up his rectum.
I watched the Queen’s lips quiver uncertainly around her teeth. I could read her, exactly as he couldn’t. She was disappointed, but damned if she’d allow me to see that. “Scared of the dark? That’s understandable, but don’t worry, Mommy’s going to take nice care of you.”
Mommy? That was laying it on a little thick, even for her.
She rolled the naked little man back and forth over her tongue, steering him away from her rows of glossy, ivory teeth. She moaned loudly, too hard, as though a fourth tiny man had been stashed up her hoo-haw and had recently waken up. “Oh yeah,” she groaned, “just like that,” while tossing Martin left and right in her mouth. For his part, he was really struggling to look delighted, and it only occurred to me just then that perhaps this wasn’t his first time in a giant person’s mouth but merely a giant woman’s mouth. Perhaps his reaction wasn’t a fear of being eaten but a deeper, latent revulsion.
After five minutes of her contrived tongue-massages and his stifled shrieks, the Queen levered him out of her mouth. “Hope you enjoyed that as much as I did,” she cooed with absolutely zero joy in her voice. “How about you, Kobi? Would you like to get cleaned up by Mommy?”
He appeared not to hear her. He was lying face-down in the ice cream, standing out against his skin, and lapping a couple errant smears of chocolate syrup from the rim of the glass dish. “Catillate” is what that action’s called, when you lick a plate clean.
“Come on, Kobi. Come to Mommy. Look what a mess you’ve made of yourself.”
He did not register having heard her, and I realized he hadn’t spoken all night long. He could’ve been an overseas capture, shipped to this nation without any preparation at all. Perhaps he was terrified by the experience, and who wouldn’t be? I started to feel bad for him. I was shrunken due to overwhelming circumstances. Martin could’ve been shrunken or just born this way. Kobi was even more of a wild card, an unknown.
The Queen gently nudged him with her fingertip, then again, and once more until he finally pulled himself over the lip of the bowl and stood up, vanilla bean ice cream flowing down his front. “Oh, don’t you look like the most delectable dessert,” she said, puckering up her huge, soft lips inches away from him.
He stepped up to her fearlessly, placing his palms upon her upper lip, or perhaps grabbing at her mouth. “Fuck you, bitch,” he said in native New Yorker, and he ground his hips into the sphincter of her lips.
The Queen was as surprised as anyone. Martin paused in his doleful sopping-up of her saliva, using the napkin I’d found, to gape in surprise at Kobi. She tried to laugh this off, and he hauled off and slapped her upper lip sharply as it stretched out of a pucker into a smile. His erection emerged from the vanilla foam, and he hopped on his tip-toes to guide it over her bottom lip.
Without wanting to relive it in clarity, he spoke to her quite rudely and she, for no reason I can imagine, went along with it. This went far beyond playing the gracious hostess, acceding to the demands of a belligerent little man who didn’t seem to understand his position.
In a fleeting moment of humanity, Martin asked me, “Is she usually like this?” I assured him I’d never seen anything like this before, and we marveled silently, horrified, as Kobi called her a series of names and issued a sequence of threats, before spurting his seed onto her teeth and instructing her to fuck herself. He returned to the ice cream bowl in search of more chocolate syrup.
It seemed the Queen was as stunned as we were. She turned her huge, wet eyes toward us, but that’s the difference between big and tiny people. When we’re the same size, sure, we can chest our cards and put up a front, hiding our inner thoughts. But when a giantess is struggling with internal conflict, a tiny person can read her like a wall of newspaper spreads. Nothing is hidden, everything is broadcast.
“I don’t know why you’re doing this to yourself,” I said, instantly regretting speaking up.
My compassion only drove her to double-down on her position. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She hefted her weight and hovered her face over the ice cream bowl, puckering up to plant a kiss in Kobi’s back. When he realized what she was doing, he twisted around to back-hand her lips. The gesture was worse than the effect, of course, and she covered his shoulder blades with an enormous, warm, soft smooch. He called her a couple worse names and drew back to punch her, so that told me he’d been big at one point. A naturally born tiny person wouldn’t have that reflex. And it must’ve been a recent conversion, because he hadn’t enough experience as a tiny person to not lose his entire arm between her lips, up to the shoulder. She jerked back in surprise, and he dangled from her puckered lips like a dribble of chocolate syrup.
Martin had a good laugh at this, but my heart was breaking for my Queen. These were comparatively small slights, considering her regal stature, but … it was anathema to my worldview that anyone should disrespect her to any degree. And that wasn’t even considering the story he was unraveling about his former existence as an unrestrained misogynist.
I had to walk away. It was a long, long walk across the kitchen table. Behind me, Martin laughed while the Queen moaned in false ecstasy and Kobi called her unrepeatable names. I hopped down to a seat, then down to the floor, and no one followed me as I found my way out of the kitchen and headed to the front door.