A Bird In The Hand

I can’t believe how light you are. I mean, yes, you are small enough to fit in the palm of my hand, but you’re a whole person! Standing there in my palm, your tiny hands on your hips, wondering what will happen next. You’re not even covering yourself. Alright, then, let’s have a closer look at you.

Your eyes widen when I bring you close to mine, and I think I can see you swallow nervously. The fine details of your miniature form are fascinating. You struggle to keep your breathing regular, and I wonder how soft your fluttering belly would feel if I touched it. There go your tiny calf tendons as I rotate the platform of my palm, and you have to let your hands fall free to keep your balance. Look at those little fingers! Would I even feel them against my skin?

I don’t want you to fall, so I curl my fingers in and tilt my palm to one side. Your arms whip out to fend off my fingers and your head jerks back, your frantic eyes searching mine for my intentions. You’ve wedged one tiny arm against the heel of my hand, and I don’t want to break it, so I let you have your little space within my grasp. I’m content to feel your tiny feet and shoulder blades flex against the soft undersides of my fingers. I tighten my grip ever so slightly, and your resistance shudders throughout your tiny frame. Is that your ass straining against the top of my palm? I believe it is.

There’s nothing you can do, however, when I bring my hand all the way to my face and my nose crowds into you, my nostrils flaring about your trembling flesh. My deep inhale draws winds through the tightest folds and hollows of your skin, and a hint of your unique fragrance blooms in my nose before it is lost in the familiar scent of my own hand. I sniff you again, the tip of my nose nuzzling into the pit of your outstretched arm, my tongue writhing against my palate to extract every last molecule of you from the air.

My eyes are still closed in contemplation when I finally let my hand (and you) drift away from my face. Then I steal a glance into my grasp, noting your relieved expression. You relax your outstretched arm, and I don’t hesitate to tighten my grip, pinning your arms to your sides with the heel of my hand and pressing the tip of my thumb into the side of your head. I still can’t get over the fact that your skull isn’t any bigger than a pistachio nut. Trying to find a better posture for breathing, you turn your head, squirming your jaw against my thumb and exposing your throat.

The barest pressure from my thumb, and your airway would be choked off. That can’t be your pulse I’m feeling, can it? Every time your muscles flex into a space between my fingers, I reflexively constrict my grip. All your potential energies are tightly swaddled in my enclosing fist. Then, an almost imperceptible movement begins and slowly grows into a recognizable rhythm. I can’t believe it. You’re humping my finger.

Of course, it’s not exactly unpleasant, you grinding your tiny crotch against my sensitive skin. And it’s not like you’re at liberty to do much of anything else. Still, it’s awkward, particularly now that your moans and grunts are audibly escaping my grip. I let it go on for a few more moments, until I realize that you’re provoking responses in me that I’m not prepared to follow through on.

I turn my hand over and open my fingers, your tiny limbs now free but still stiff. Your eyes avoid my disapproving gaze as the fingers of my free hand pluck your arms and pinch them together. When I lift you out of my palm and dangle you before my face, only then do you favor me with that self-satisfied smirk. I don’t have to bring you under my nose to catch the scent of your rut.

I have half a mind to drop you down the front of my underwear, if only for the satisfaction of hearing your alarmed shriek suddenly muffled when I let my waistband snap back. My tongue slides along the back of my teeth and then darts out to slick my upper lip, an unconscious reminder that I have more than one prison available. But I’m not going to do that. Not now. Not here.

You’re so helpless, dangling there. A sharp puff of my breath blasts your hair back and sends your legs flailing like a wind chime. You have no idea what I’m going to do next, do you? Twisting you around, there’s nothing more adorable than the sight of your tiny ass swaying in the breeze. Okay, this is getting out of hand (ahem).

What am I to do with you? How long do you think you’ll last out there, tiny, naked, and alone? On the other hand, I’m not sure I’m ready for a house guest, even one that eats as little as I suppose you do. I don’t know where you’d sleep, or how you’d get around. I’d end up carrying you everywhere. How dignified would that be for either of us? No matter how delightful it feels to wrap my fingers around you.

You’re trying to say something, but I can’t make it out. I settle you back into the palm of the hand you molested, securing you with my thumb and releasing your arms from their dangling torment. Bringing you to my ear, my breath catches as I discern the rhythm of your cooing. You…you’re actually singing, aren’t you? Singing. To me.

The heel of my hand reclines to form a perch for you right up against the side of my head, my splayed fingers forming rigid rails guarding you. I can no longer see you, but I’m not with my eyes anymore; I’m drinking the gentle melody you’re pouring into my head. Where did you learn such notes of longing? How did someone so small find such haunting passion?

I finally open my eyes, and I realize that I’ve been swaying and swinging to no one’s inspiration but yours. Your tiny voice had filled my head and my heart and my world. For as long as your breath endured, it was you who held me.

I think I’ll take you home.

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Originally posted:  18 May 2016.