Everything I Ever

MyHeavenOct20 entry. Author Notes at bottom.

---

“I wish I could have a little man of my own.”

Erin stared at me with her slate-blue eyes as I sat on her coffee table, three-inches-tall and perched on a stack of fashion magazines.  It was my first time in her apartment, and I was on alert for any danger.  She slid her hand menacingly along her thigh, but I made no effort to respond because she hadn’t been talking to me.  She was talking to Natasha, her best friend and the woman who shrank me two years ago.  My keeper.

I turned to look up into Natasha’s face for guidance.  Over the past two years I had gotten to know every square millimeter of her face as it had loomed over me, scrutinized me, sniffed me, tasted me, nuzzled me, and engulfed me.  Sea-green eyes, heavy wicked eyebrows, a narrow proud nose, full mischievous lips, all framed by curtains of raven-black hair.

If my keeper had any reaction to Erin’s declaration, not even my intimate familiarity with her features could aid me in discerning it.  She just sat there on the couch opposite Erin, sipping her wine.

It had been less than two weeks since Natasha had first shown me to Erin, the only other person to have seen me since my tiny life began, and as far as I know the only person Natasha had even told about me.  I had grown quite accustomed to Natasha being my entire world, and I was thoroughly unequipped for making the acquaintance of new people a hundred times my size.

I had heard Erin’s voice before and even caught a glimpse once when I had peeked out from Natasha’s pocket.  They had been friends going back to junior high, way before Natasha found me.  My keeper rarely discussed others with me, and she hadn’t prepared me at all for the day when she reached into her purse, lifted me out, and held me in front of Erin’s astonished face.

Give Erin credit, though; she adjusted to the reality much quicker than I had two years ago.  But adjust I did.  I remember almost nothing about my life before Natasha took me.  I knew her somehow from before—I can just barely remember what her face looked like when it wasn’t immense.  I hadn’t given her much thought at all, and then one night I went to sleep in my apartment and woke up in a jar beside her bed.

I turned back to Erin, who was still looking at me with a predatory expression.  Blonde and round-faced, she was what they were calling “thicc” the last time Natasha let me look at the Internet.  Having kicked off her shoes as soon as she got home, Erin was stretched out on her couch, her black business skirt struggling to contain her stockinged legs.

“I can think of a lot of people I’d like to cast that spell on,” said Erin.

“It doesn’t work like that,” said Natasha.  “It’s nothing like on Sabrina or Charmed or any of those silly shows.”

 “Shit, Nat,” said Erin, “I know you told me you were a witch, but I always thought it was just, you know, playing with crystals or collecting your period blood or some shit like that.”

Natasha shook her head.  “It’s got nothing to do with moon magic.”

“Well, whatever it is, it’s awesome.  There’s gotta be a way to make some money with it.”

“Everything has to balance out.  I’ve chosen what fortunes I could.”

Erin swallowed that with some more Chardonnay.  She finally looked away from me and stared at the trio of lit candles on the table next to her.  A thought occurred to her and she turned back to Natasha.

“Okay,” said Erin, “but you’re telling me you were a witch this whole time and you never put a hex on that bitch Carole Franzen back in college?”

“Oh, I definitely thought about it,” replied Natasha.  “Permanent severe eczema, diarrhea, breath that smells like low tide.  She deserved all that and worse.  She just wasn’t worth it.  As the saying goes, living well is the best revenge.”

Erin shook her head and looked back at me, her mouth skewed to the side in puzzlement.  “So,” she began, “don’t get me wrong, he’s cute and all.  But don’t you want a real man?”

“He’s plenty real.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Not specifically, no.”

“Someone to wrap their thick arms around you.”

“That’s nothing compared to holding him in the palm of my hand.”

“A warm furry chest to bury your face in.”

“I’d much rather bury him in my cleavage.”

“A deep sexy voice calling your name.”

“Nothing’s sexier than hearing his tiny voice muffled between my thighs.”

Erin leaned forward and down, and I reflexively took a step backward as her curious face and white blouse loomed large over me, provoking her to smirk.

“I suppose it might be like having a pet,” she said to Natasha while keeping her eyes on me.

“Oh, he’s much more than a pet to me.”

I could see what was coming, but all I could do was sit there and wait for it.  Erin finally blurted it out: “Do you think I could hold him?”

I turned imploringly to Natasha, and while she met my gaze, her eyes remained distant.  Her decision came abruptly, followed by a quick gulp of wine.  “Sure,” she said.

Natasha got up and sat down next to Erin.  Before I could stand, her hand darted out and wrapped itself around me.  She held me securely in her lap and told Erin, “Hold your hands out.”

Erin sat back and put her hands out in front of her like a kid in a candy store.  Natasha lifted me up and stood me on Erin’s left palm, then released me. 

Erin’s hold on me was precarious, as if she was prepared to drop me should I bite her.  I held my arms out for balance, but Erin’s increasingly intense scrutiny was more destabilizing than anything else.  “I thought he’d be more slippery,” she said.  “Like a mouse.”

“Well, to be fair,” replied Natasha, “he has had more practice at this than you.  Close your fist around him.”

“Won’t that be too tight?”

“He’s tougher than he looks.”

Erin slowly tipped her hand and I deliberately fell against it so that her fingers could curl around me.  I lifted my arms and rested them on the sides of her thumb and index finger as she brought me close to her delighted face.

She squeezed me tight.  “Oh, that’s nice,” she said.  I could tell from her breath that her wine had too much oak.  Speaking of which…

“Uh,” said Erin, “I think he’s kind of happy to see me.”

“Yeah,” replied Natasha, “that’ll happen.”

Erin pinned my chest with her thumb so she could unfurl her other fingers and have a look at my stiffy.  I couldn’t control its response to her warm breath and warmer gaze.

“Did you get a look at his dingaling before you made him tiny?”

“No.  Not until the process was under way.”

“I suppose that’s for the best.  You mighta changed your mind.”

“Oh no,” my keeper reassured her.  “I knew exactly what I wanted.”

“So,” Erin began, “you said you guys have sex.  How, exactly, does that work?”

“Well, most of the time I just hold him close to me.”

“How close?”

“Skin to skin.  Usually stuffed in my bra or panties.”

“That must feel weird.”

“Actually, it’s fantastic,” my keeper said.  “Can you feel his heartbeat with your thumb?  I can feel that anywhere I like.”

“Does he ever do anything himself?” asked Erin.

“He didn’t at first.  I had to do everything.  I still have a couple of pairs of panties with the little bindings sewn in.”

“You sewed him into your panties?”

“How else could I keep him in there all day while I was at work?”

Erin chuckled.  Then she saw that Natasha was serious.  They both looked at me and burst out laughing.

“So what brought him around?” Erin asked, after she had recovered.

“Kissing.  I kissed him all the time, every day, and one day he kissed me back.  As I knew he would.”

“You can feel those tiny lips?”

“Girl, I can feel everything.”

Erin raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips.  “So what else does he do?  I mean, he’s smaller than all of my dildos and they don’t need to breathe.”

“You’d be surprised how little air he needs,” answered Natasha.

Erin snorted and suddenly opened her hand.  I fell back and didn’t see her right hand come in until she had plucked me by the wrist.  She lowered her left hand and dangled me between her and Natasha.

“Seriously, this little thing?” she sneered.  “No way he fills you up.”

“Look at his legs,” Natasha told Erin.  “Imagine them deep inside your pussy, rhythmically sliding and pulsing against you.”

Erin looked blankly at Natasha, then let out a long breath and brought me before her face.

“Look at his ass,” continued Natasha.  “Imagine it just inside your threshold, straining with every kick and thrust.  Look at his hard little cock.  Imagine it rubbing you from the inside, completely swallowed by your cunt and still surging forward.  Look at his shoulders and arms.  Imagine them drenched by your juice and spreading your lips open.  Look at his hands and mouth.  Imagine them embracing and fellating your clit until you feel like the goddess you deserve to be.”

I hung there, watching the effect of my keeper’s words had on Erin’s face.  There was no doubt that Erin very much wanted to make her imaginings into reality.  As much as I feared Erin’s appetites, I too was enthralled by Natasha’s devotions, so much so that my free hand had drifted to my cock.  My conflicted desires were lost in Erin’s hungry eyes.  One word from my keeper, and Erin would have me.

“Ahem.”

Erin looked startled and jerked me away from her face.  I twisted around to see Natasha holding one hand out, palm up.  Erin lowered me into my keeper’s hand, which blessedly closed around me.

Natasha deftly transferred me to her left shoulder, and I disembarked to settle next to her throat, my legs tucked inside the collar of her T-shirt and resting on her clavicle.  The scent of her hair surrounding me was instantly calming.

“I can have him whenever, wherever I want,” said Natasha.  “At the start of the day or just before bed.  At work, at the store, or in a bar while acting as wingman for my best friend.”

“You didn’t.”

Oh yeah, she did.  From my perch under her jaw, I felt Natasha’s grin.

“I’m sold,” said Erin.  “Teach me to be a witch.”

Natasha shook her head sadly.  “I’ve never heard of a practitioner who wasn’t born into it in some way.”

“It’s a family thing?”

Natasha nodded.  “I learned it from my mother, and her mother, and her mother, and her mother.”

“Damn, they live long in…where’s your family from again?”

“It’s not even a country anymore.  Just a big forgotten forest.”

“Okay, then can you shrink a guy for me?  Pretty please?”  Erin’s face was both enchanting and terrifying.

“It wouldn’t work,” replied Natasha.  “Magic that powerful has to come from the heart.”

Erin’s face fell, and she took a sip of wine.  Then she shot me a look that I will remember for the rest of my life: pure, seething covetousness.

Mercifully, the topic of conversation shifted away from me, and I sensed the evening was winding down.  As glad as I was to be out of Erin’s clutches, the memory of those few moments lingered and stirred within me.  I fully expected to be chastised for those feelings when my keeper and I were alone together.  Of course, I also craved such correction, and Natasha knew that, too.

She knows everything.

---

Author Notes

This theme was challenging because, over the decades that I’ve been wrestling with size fantasy, it has become clear to me that I have more than one “perfect” fantasy. Sometimes it’s the inverse of itself. Sometimes it’s the exact same scenario with radically different personalities. Sometimes the introduction of additional characters dramatically transforms both the tone and the outcome. To me, this indicates both the robustness of size fantasy and the richness of our collective imagination.

Indeed, the chief conceit of the Size Aesthetic project is that there are sympathies and tropes that resonate across most of size fantasy, regardless of the specific scenarios and relationships invoked. By trying on different perspectives and personalities, our stories can flesh out why each of us finds size differential so compelling.

While this clearly wasn’t the goal at the outset, having four years of Size Riot conclude with “your ideal, quintessential, archetypal size fantasy” seems like requiring everyone to complete a senior thesis in order to graduate. Many authors took the opportunity to apply new lessons to primal scenarios. I believe my size aesthetic education is far from complete, but I am quite confident that Size Riot has both made me a better writer and helped me explore new depths in my appreciation of size fantasy.

So why did I write this particular story, with this particular scenario? It’s not my “original” fantasy, unchanged from my first childhood size feelings. Those feelings have evolved over the decades, and I have gotten to know myself much better. Furthermore, exposure to other size fantasists have helped me understand the variety and degree to which different people can (and cannot) appreciate size encounters.

I suppose my inspiration here comes from the old adage, “Make the porn you wish to see in the world.” I’ve read (and written) several F/m scenarios featuring shrunken men that discuss why this is attractive from the shrunken man’s perspective, but far rarer are examinations of why a normal-sized woman would want to keep a shrunken man. I am constantly on the alert for such perspectives because, after years of ruminating of why I want to be shrunken, I have determined that my ideal fantasy is to be shrunk by a woman for her reasons and not mine.

In particular, I want to hear a woman advocate for keeping a shrunken man based on the carnal pleasure she derives therefrom. The emotional and aesthetic attractions of a mixed-size relationship (F/m as well as others) are important and compelling, and I have quite enjoyed reading (and writing) about them. What would make my fantasy complete, however, what would finally absolve me from feeling like a pathetic, developmentally-arrested perv is to hear a woman declare that she gets as much sexual pleasure from the idea of shoving a tiny man into her pussy as I do from the idea of being shoved in there.

That’s why this story had to be a conversation between Natasha and her (female, non-shrunken) friend. Natasha isn’t performing for our narrator, she’s justifying her desires to a “normie,” someone who she trusts and respects. In a longer format, I’d want to give a lot more background into Natasha’s & Erin’s friendship, to establish both how they differ and how they are alike, and to foreshadow how Erin might come to share Natasha’s desires. The first draft has a tiny bit of that background as I was introducing the characters to myself.

More ambitiously, I’d like to tell the story of how Natasha determined that she wanted and deserved to shrink and keep a man, and how she decided that our narrator was the one to take. I’m not sure I’m equal to exploring those feelings. Asking myself what might make a shrunken man attractive to a woman is a fraught endeavor. I could never really be sure that I wasn’t just projecting my desires onto her.

Many size encounters are depicted as unsought by the characters, unwitting people tossed into a situation that they have to adapt to, often discovering a serendipitous post-hoc affinity for the new arrangement. I didn’t want any such accident here. This had to be a deliberate choice by the woman for reasons of her own, without regard for what the shrunken man wanted.

Sometimes I think this isn’t my story to tell. Sometimes I think that if I were ever to run across such a story from someone else, I would be churlish and petty enough to find fault with how it deviated from my own desires. Sometimes I think that my thirst is so transparent and self-indulgent that it impairs my ability to construct plausible characters and plots. Sometimes I think I am so unworthy of being kept as a shrunken man that I conjure up scenarios and personalities mockingly removed from anything that resembles me or my circumstances.

This story is an(other) attempt to silence those thoughts.

My Natasha is out there somewhere. Someday she’ll find me and take me.