Inspiration can come from anywhere. Instead of the Muse, this time the prompt comes from a new acquaintance, an actual giantess with some interesting ideas.
Dec. 11, 2024: "And what would you do if I allowed you to be in my presence?"
It’s been one week to the day since I was shipped to the Queen’s home. My life with Her started with a rocking drop to Her porch, the click of the delivery drudge’s smartphone to confirm delivery, the distant roar of their engine, and then two hours in intensifying heat before the mellifluous “oh, what have we here” that changed my life.
She brought me in. I heard and appreciated the soft plat-plat of Her palms upon the sides of the box. I’ve heard stories: so many other Owners would gleefully kick the box around the yard first, or simply stomp on it, contents unseen. It was too soon to nail down a judgment, but how She handled my box was a point in Her favor.
She hummed to me. I didn’t recognize the song. She could have been saying words, but I was too happy and excited to notice. The box bumped lightly upon a tabletop, and in less than a minute a beam of light pierced my shadowy and sweltering container. I laid flat among the packing peanuts, watching the silvery triangle above slice through the packaging tape, listened to it make two more slits, and then Her thumbs broke through the ceiling and parted it wide open.
And then She presented herself to me, and I was exposed to Her.
What I noticed first was Her sharp smile. I’ve heard other stories where Owners start out with discipline or punishment, setting the baseline for the relationship. She only grinned at me, a smartly angular grin that spoke of real pleasure, perhaps excitement. I don’t want to speak for my Queen, but in the privacy of my own thoughts, that’s what struck me. She was excited that I’d arrived today, and She was … I’ll say not displeased with my appearance. That’s less an assertion of my inherent beauty and more of Her gratitude and generosity. You’ll begin to appreciate why I worship my Queen as I do.
Long dark hair framing that keen grin, soft pink lips framing beautifully smooth, nicely shaped teeth I couldn’t wait to get my hands on. Beyond that, well, a ceiling like any other, I suppose. Her lips trembled ever-so-slightly in that moment, as though She didn’t know whether to greet me or pop me in Her mouth. Already, my heart was hammering against my ribs, and perhaps it was naive of me at that point but I felt optimistic about our future.
She did greet me, but I can’t recall what She said, because … I was shipped from overseas, and Her accent flooded me like a ruby port. I could have listened to Her recite the phone book, and I had the strongest impulse to scramble up Her arm and stuff myself into Her mouth, to enable Her voice to really thrum through all my wet muscles and blood cells. Obviously, I was the one with the accent in this context, but I’m just penning these thoughts for myself.
Her hands were warm and tender as She lifted me from the box. Her fingers were soft and knowing, seeking under my body, popping the IV and vitals connections with grace, until I lay bare and couched in Her grasp. This would be the moment of truth, of course. Regardless of whatever happened up to this point, the best indication of the days to come would be now, when I lay frail and helpless in Her grasp.
She flashed me that grin again, and I nearly melted through Her fingertips. She may have said something, but I was struggling to remember how to breathe. You’ll forgive me.
The first week was an exercise of getting to know each other. She showed me around Her house, where the sheers glowed in the bay windows, the layout of the kitchen (not that I could ever make Her a meal or even feed myself), a small pile of books near a TV, the bathroom (equally inaccessible), other rooms, but I was not permitted then to see Her bedroom. She assured me that this would be a reward for exemplary service, and I readily agreed. I mean, She wasn’t the stompy, break-limbs type of Owner, so I was more than happy to endorse any rules She laid down.
If it could happen that someday I might please Her, then all the better.
My living arrangements were … none. Over the course of the week I would become most acquainted with the coffee table, bearing a tray with a couple accent pieces, and then one bottlecap of fresh water and one bottlecap of it-doesn’t-matter water because that would be my toilet. She provided a folded tissue for bedding, with strict instructions not to leave the coffee table during the night. There was no threat of pets or anything, and obviously if I wandered into the wrong part of Her house I could get stepped on during nocturnal perambulation, but I’m not that stupid. If my Queen says to remain on the coffee table, I will fucking make the most of that damned coffee table, I assure you.
The first day, She played music and made little snacks. She sat on the couch opposite me, stretched out one long (to me) leg and waggled Her toes enticingly. Unsure of the boundaries, I contented myself to knead into Her sole with my little fists. Her smell … was something I would learn to get used to. This is always the case, when I’ve talked with other shrunken people. You get used to the biology, the sebum, how they smell after certain meals. You just do, and you adjust, and sometimes you even look forward to it. As I ran my fingers over the creamy wrinkles of Her sole, I had a pretty good idea that I’d be compatible with Her metabolism.
Some tiny people need lots of reaffirmation, to know that they’re doing a good job. Maybe that’s a defense mechanism, but sometimes it’s also an insecurity. I have no such insecurity. She turned on the TV and flipped through previews on some streaming service while I adjusted my stance and ground my fists into this part of Her sole or that. She ignored me, and because these are my private notes, I can confess I’m fucking into that. Plying my strength into Her foot, working as hard as I can to please Her, and She just watches TV like She forgot She even owns a tiny man … holy shit. I gave Her my all, and She only looked up when I collapsed from muscle failure. I asked for a little protein, She gave me a pinch of cold cuts, and I assured Her that I looked forward to developing myself into something stronger and more enduring for Her pleasure.
My Queen shrugged and bent Her metatarsals down to me. Her sole wrinkled adorably, and Her toes descended upon my head. Not knowing what else to do, I chastely kissed Her big toe, and when She didn’t retreat, the tips of the other four as well. Apparently that was a good enough answer, because She laid me across Her jean-clad thigh and gave me a deep-tissue massage with Her fingertips while watching Fisk.
The second day, She was bored and asked me about myself. Not much to say: I worked as a database administrator for an international hotel/restaurant conglomerate. I was good at my job, but you know what they say: the stock market goes up while our pay never changes, and despite putting in overtime and subsisting on canned goods at a wholesale outlet, I found myself in debt. My social worker gave me the usual choice: jail time (during which my earnings would plummet while my debt compounded) or the Alleviation. That meant I would be shrunken down to reduce consumption and resources like real estate or … the fact of existence. Given that I’m no longer on speaking terms with my family, and my career precluded any personal relationships, I really had nothing to lose by accepting the Alleviation. I mean, if some Owner killed me, then at least my suffering would be over and I’d start again or be subsumed into oblivion and never know the difference.
As it happened, I fell into the lap of a lovely, kindly Owner, someone I’m grateful to call my Queen. That’s like million-to-one odds, and fuck if I won’t commit all of myself to earning this gift, day after day.
The third day, my Queen was in a poor mood. It doesn’t matter whether I caused it—I didn’t, let my record show—but I bore the brunt of it. That’s what I’m for, after all. She set me on the dining table and chased me around with Her index fingers extended. It amused Her to sweep my legs out from under me. At my mass, such a fall isn’t disastrous, but it pleased Her to hear my cries and my pleas for mercy. That’s the least I can do for Her in such a situation, remind Her of Her power and let Her exult in my weakness. And when I couldn’t get up anymore, when She held the tines of a fork against my throat, cold and blunt, oh, how I wailed. How I cried for Her mercy, how I begged for Her forgiveness. I’d done nothing wrong, and my life was legally in Her hands, but I performed for Her. I made sure that She knew how complete my surrender was to Her, how I had no recourse but for Her judgment. I think I said as much.
The third day was not my favorite day, because She still wore that well-sculpted grin of Hers, but then it was metallic, like the blade that opened my box. Like the knives that lay in the drawer beside the fork She chose to discipline me with. It was a hard grin, neither hot nor cold, just very sharp and strong. I forced myself not to look at it while I appealed to Her better nature.
On the fourth day, She noticed how I stank. There was nothing I could do to conceal that: I needed every drop of drinking water for myself that week (She was still learning proper care and feeding of a shrunken man), and the other bottlecap was untenable. Only when She sniffed me did it occur to Her to empty out the second bottlecap, to my profound relief. I wasn’t going to say anything, but that was long overdue.
As for me, well, I wish I could say that bathing with Her was a sybaritic experience. Instead, I felt like an old washcloth: She brought me to the kitchen sink, not the bathroom, dribbled some citrus-based dish soap on me, and basically wrung me out between Her hands to strip the thin layer of human funk off my tiny person. She seemed resentful to have to do this, and I would’ve been happy to wash myself if She wanted to give me a little basin and some soap, but it was an ordeal. I felt awful, She didn’t look pleased, and then She dumped me in one of those iconic cardboard boxes for Chinese take-out, telling me to feast on Her leftovers. And I landed in the cold, greasy food and got all dirty again, so what was the point of all that preamble? So when She found me after I’d gnawed my way through some mei fun and chicken, She was especially displeased to see the mess I’d made of myself. I guess the fourth day was also a pretty miserable day, too.
The fifth day was unlike any of the others. On this day, She emerged from Her bedroom, smelling sweetly of sleep, grasped me in Her sleep-numb fist and carried me to the kitchen. There is nothing in the world like being wrapped up in the slightly swollen, tenderly warm fingers of someone who’s just gotten out of bed, let me tell you. It’s as special as when a strange cat chooses you among a roomful of strangers, or a moment in the evening when the sunset’s about to bloom into its full range of colors and you hear quiet music playing somewhere and not a car anywhere. That’s what it was like to be carried in my Queen’s grasp, for the few seconds before She set me down to make coffee.
She moved me to the dining table, and I padded over to sit on Her napkin while She cupped the mug in Her hands, sniffing it, staring into it as though She could scry Her future in it. It was not my place to speak up, though of course I had a hundred questions for Her. I know my place. My Queen is not cruel, but only an idiot would push his luck like that. I sat cross-legged on the coarse napkin, stretching my spine to sit upright, and looked respectfully just to the side of Her head as She did what She needed to, to start Her day.
“You’ve been in my home for a week now,” She said.
I nodded, waiting for the rest of it.
“You’re in my space. I’m taking care of you. You’re eating my food, sleeping on my furniture. Apparently I have to clean you off because you can’t.”
I nodded along with this, and it was not the time for me to make suggestions.
Slowly She turned Her face to me; I waited one respectful moment before looking up at Her. I don’t know if that’s how these things are done, but it felt right. I want Her to know I don’t take Her attention lightly and I demand nothing.
She licked Her lips. I would learn to recognize the two parallel veins of blue on the underside of Her tongue, where they bent, and the nodules that formed on the sides of Her tongue when She didn’t drink enough water. I would learn Her rugae, the ridges along the roof of Her mouth, studying them with fingertips and my gray eyes as I lay upon Her tongue. I would learn the light fissures in Her tongue, I would learn the pattern of build-up in Her papillae after certain meals, and I would learn the warning signs in the twitch of the corners of Her lips and the hitch of Her breath when She came close to … Her business. I can’t even write that here.
She licked Her lips, and I studied with hungry rigor the track of those exalted taste buds gliding over the ridges of Her divine lips. As subtly as I could, I filled my lungs with the exhaust of Her lungs, taking in Her particulate into my body, embedding Her into my corpore. Marking myself as Hers, in intimate ways She might never guess.
“I’ve taken up Your time and space,” I said, lowering my gaze. “I crave to know how one such as I may compensate, to restore in some meager way the balance of Your dwelling.”
She paused, and I was pleased to note this. She might have been expecting complaint or more pathetic mewling, but instead I gave Her a small slice of my eager submission. Just a sliver, though She might not suspect it. There was so much more, I was so eager to throw myself into Her, but we were both playing a game of patience and exploration. I knew my role.
She straightened up in Her chair, and I was also pleased to note this. We both had our roles.
“I have permitted you to remain in my presence,” She said, with a little more grandeur than Her pre-coffee voice. “What will you do for Me?”
This … is a tricky question. Obviously I would do any menial or horrifying task She asked of me. I would scrape the boogers out of Her nose. I would pop any blemishes She had on Her body, happily flushing them out with hydrogen peroxide and pasting them over with bacitracin. I would be proud to maintain Her grandeur and hygiene.
But too many shrunken guys go for the gold, right away. “Oh, sure, Goddess, I’ll worship your cunt!” And they go stampeding down to the clit, plunging their arms up to the elbows in labia minora, and the next thing you know they’re crushed between two powerful thighs or ground into a paste up and down a lovely and unassuming vulva. I’ve heard the stories. There’s a lot of time to listen to all the stories, while getting shipped and processed between my continent and my Queen’s, and only a fucking idiot doesn’t learn from the mistakes of others.
So I sat there for a moment, pursing my lips, quickly estimating how to play this. Obviously I want to give my Queen the maximum amount of pleasure possible, yet it’s only been a week and I’m not entirely sure what She’s into. I’ve never witnessed Her attending Herself in Her bedroom, obviously, and we haven’t had that nature of conversation yet. There are some things all Owners like, and there are many things all tiny men assume all Owners like, and then there are the things individual Owners actually like. Plenty of room for fatal missteps.
And yet, the appropriate response is not to turn around and ask, “Well, what are You into? I’ll do anything You want.” The message between the lines here is “I want you to figure out how to please me, with no insider information.” Some Owners prize the ingenuity and intuition of a shrunken man, and that is to what I aspire. No, I’m not very intuitive, and no, I’m not very ingenious, but … I’m sincere. I do love this Owner, I love my Queen. I love Her in ways I’m not permitted to express to Her and in ways I haven’t fully processed to record here.
So, what would I do to justify my existence, this day?
“Let me have Your foot,” I enunciated, a little boldly. It’s a humble request, with the edge of slight bravado.
The corner of Her mouth turned up, and I knew today I would not be killed. She raised Her eyebrows questioningly, but She upended Her palm, and I crawled upon those sleep-numb fingertips (I can only hope against hope I get to make love to these puffy, rosy tips) and perched in the center of Her palm. With more or less care She lifted me from the table, lowered me beside Her legs in cotton jammie-pants, and let me tumble from Her hand beside Her foot.
I picked myself up and slowly walked around Her bare foot, long and beautifully shaped, redolent with the musk of sleep and Her biome, which I was by now becoming addicted to. I ran my tiny hands over Her bridge, down to Her toes, respectfully avoiding Her sexy toe-cleavage. For now.
Far above me, beyond the hip that bulged over the edge of the chair, beyond the edge of the table’s plateau, Her shaggy dark hair hung like curtains around Her face as She leaned over to observe me. Probably out of curiosity more than anything. I had no idea how many other shrunken men She had entertained.
I knelt before Her toes. The big toe, swollen and meaty; the four others, diminishing from the graceful extension and curl to the darling little nodule, barely there. I would never tell Her this, of course, but I was deeply grateful She had cute feet. There’s nothing you can do when you’re sentenced to an Owner with unpretty feet. You can’t train yourself to like them, you can only commit to perfunctory gestures with degrees of enthusiasm based on how much sleep you were permitted the night before. And, often as not, that descends into a cycle of tedium and resentment until inevitably you’re squashed like a small, wild grape beneath that meaty big toe.
It was fortunate that I loved Her toes, the shape of them, their formation. It was actually difficult to hold myself back from lavishing my lust upon them, but I knew my place. I greeted Her big toe, cupping the sides in my tiny hands and nodding respectfully. The other four toes, those I could place kisses upon, but the big toe required more respect and a little distance. I placed my palms upon the nail of Her big toe, and I closed my eyes and nodded reverently, showing my gratitude at being placed in such a position. My Queen could not have heard me at this distance, in this position, so it was important that my entire little body registered the appropriate respect and admiration. Just enough exaggeration so Her distant eyes could perceive it, without appearing clownish or mocking.
I bent down and pressed my lips to the tip of Her big toe. She rewarded me with a little twitch, a slight raise that mashed my lips against my teeth, but for which I was grateful. I placed three more kisses under the perimeter of Her nail, then backed off. My knees scooted to Her second toe, which was easier to lift up, and I eagerly kissed the circumference of this toe tip. To me, it’s the cutest toe, and it offends no one to lavish affection upon it. Moving from the big toe to the second toe is like saying, “Thank you for welcoming me into your home; oh my gosh, what a gorgeous kitchen!”
The next three toes barely require mention. All the ceremony goes to the first two, so my Queen was not moved one way or the other as I slobbered over Her third, fourth, and fifth toes. They were all darling, nicely rounded and so warm, and I kissed them to my heart’s content.
There were only two ways for this to go (well, technically three, if we want to include my gruesome demise) after this point. It was too early in the morning, and my Queen was not sufficiently aroused first thing in the morning, for me to make love to the ball and arch of Her foot, so She simply slid Her foot back, said “good enough for now,” and lifted me gently to the table once more, where I probed Her for the meaning of Her dreams and Her agenda for the day.