THERAPY   Part I

…Sex addiction.
 
There…

I said it...

I wish I had some more dramatic problem to submit to your sagacity, doctor, but really, that’s  what it boils down to… I think... And something else I’ll mention later, if I work up the courage to do so. But basically, that’s it: I need sex, I need it badly and I can’t seem to be able to live without it.
Apart from that, I’m just your average downtown girl. I’m 28, I work as a PA in a law firm. I pay my taxes. I get on with my parents. I have good friends. I enjoy going out. And I do a lot of sports. Nothing to fret about.
I’m sure you’re going to find a lot of weird stuff about me. After all, it’s your job to find out things about your patients, isn’t it?
Believe me, I would be  everything but interesting, if it wasn’t for this… kink of mine.

How do I know I’m addicted? Well, that’s an easy one to start with, thanks. How about the disturbing fact I need to have two or three orgasms a day, everyday? If I don’t get my fix, doctor, I get all fidgety, I loose my temper, and yes, I’m always on the prowl for a good fuck, excuse my French.

No, I’m not married. And really I just can’t, you’ll understand why. I had a boyfriend a few years ago, but it’s a long gone story.
 
Well, everywhere, I guess.  At home mostly, but often at work, in the street, in public transport, I never seem to shy away from it because of the location.

No, I don’t know those men. It’s not like I’m dating them. To be truthful,  doctor, I use them. I need them, I find them, and I use them. This is a long shot away from romance, believe me.

Before you ask me more, allow me to tell you how it all started. You see, there is a very strange twist to my affairs, and I think you need to have some context.

It started three years ago. I had finished my studies and accepted this PA job in that firm as a way to gather experience. A good enough job, not stressful, but close enough to the top-brass that I would learn a lot from it. I was quite happy with it. Sorry ? Oh, no, I still work there.
It’s there actually that I met Michael, who was one of the associate partners. I quickly developed a serious crush on him. My boyfriend was gone, and I was, well, available, I think. Everything about Mike was a turn on, to tell you the truth. His status, his manners, his looks. I was the typical impressionable little co-worker then, you see. But he just wasn’t interested of course, he was older, married, two kids. Settled like an anchored ship. I was real unhappy about this.
One day, we were working together to finish some papers. Mike was leaning over the photocopy machine, in a little room adjacent to the main open-space, and I was looking at him from my desk, seriously contemplating throwing myself at him, so frustrated I was. And then it happened. His clothes just crumpled to the floor. No, doctor, he hadn’t undressed. He was still in them. In total shock I walked to the heap of clothes, rummaged through it and found him easily enough. All three inches of him.

No, doctor, please, I know what you’re thinking. Fantasy stuff, hallucination, day dreaming. I know what it sounds like. Please let me finish.
Thank you. As I said, I was in shock. I had always been able to reduce things, as far back as I remember. Small things, inanimate things. It runs in the family, so to speak. Not a great gift, by any means. But I had never done so on a live being, not even a cat. And I had never done it without serious effort and concentration. Mike’s shrinking just seemed to be as easy as a fleeting thought. I wanted to bring him back home, sure, but then suddenly, I had turned him into a tiny tiny creature without the slightest effort. On a whim, so to speak. I never knew I could do that. And I was horrified to have done this to my co-worker.

Ok, doctor, I can see the glint in your eyes. Listen, you’re going to have to indulge me in this. And I want you to stay focused on my story. I really need help, but not for what you’re thinking of, right now. I need you to accept my story and to help me give it a happy ending, no matter how strange it sounds. Can we do that? Hmmmm…I sure see I got your attention anyway.

Where was I? Oh yes. So here I was, panicking in the small room, with this tiny man looking at me with terror on his face. Someone could come in any moment. I just grabbed him, mumbled an awkward “Sorry”, considered hiding him in my bra , thought better of it and, lifting my skirt, dropped him inside my panties. I had no pockets on my blouse and skirt. There was no other way. I went back to my desk, walking stiff, probably all red in the face. I sat down , my heart beating madly , and looked around. No one had noticed anything yet. But down under my skirt, I could feel the tiny struggle Mike was putting on against my bush. I was in hell.

The clothes? Oh yes, someone found them all right, a minute later, and I had to act all surprised and play along as everyone was wondering what could have happened. After a few minutes, I was free at last to go to the bathroom, my purse in my hand, to get rid of my little passenger. Or so I thought. My boss called me just then to join straight away an important meeting. I had to spend two more hours listening to business, looking concentrated and attentive while feeling Mike attempting to lift the elastic band of my undies. (A quick crossing of my legs did keep him quieter down there for a while). It was the longest meeting of my life. Eventually I got an opportunity to transfer a shocked Michael into my purse, for the time being.

Later that day, in my flat, I did my best to explain myself to the tiny man on my coffee table. In spite of all my contrition, his anger was proportional to his fear and he demanded of course that I reverse the “magic” ( that’s what he called it) or at the very least that I bring him to a  hospital and warn his family. I thought long and hard about that. I knew I could not undo what I’d done, but the sensible thing was indeed to let him into more competent hands.

I won’t deny I was thrilled in a way to have Mike for me like this , in my home. I’m not joking when I say I had a serious crush on him. And here he was, in my place, for the first time outside the realm of the office. But I also had to keep practical. I was again getting into a small panic as I faced the violent tantrum he was getting into. Confused and at a loss, I , the giant woman that dominated his tiny form, went hiding my shame in my bedroom, where I reflected in vain upon any possible resolution of this predicament.

Later, I dared to come out and cook some dinner for me and my “guest”. I kept staring at him, fascinated by the incredible accuracy of the shrinking. It was exactly Mike all right, but a Mike that was sitting between my plate and my cup of coffee, near a spoon longer than him. He was munching on some crumbs of cake I gave him, and was staring back at me. It occurred to me I was a real mountain next to him, and leaving my hand on the table, I lost myself for a while in the contemplation of his tiny form near the seemingly massive hand that rested at his side.

We both were discovering the impossible situation I guess. He looked so small, I suddenly felt like seeing him as he really was. I wouldn’t submit him to a measuring tape, but I had to compare each other. I asked him (politely) if it would be okey to just be on the floor for a minute. He stared silently for a second and nodded a yes. I deposited him on the kitchen floor and looked down on him. He was slightly recoiling from my feet, his tiny face upturned, in awe. I was looking at him, and could see him from so far above, I nearly got a strange vertigo for half a second, as if it was me, who was placed high in the air. But no, the man I was in love with was this tiny mouse between my feet, hardly reaching my ankle.  The sight was frightening, but oddly, doctor I felt a weird… elation, also. There was something fascinating and strangely…pleasing to this situation.

 I nudged him very gently with my toe, and I swear it was near as large as his body. His head was as small as my little toenail! He yelped and ran away for a few inches before turning back at me, looking frightened and angry, squealing inaudible insults or threats. He had made quite a good run, yet to me, it was as if he hadn’t moved at all, really. I also realized he had a grand view of my undies from where he was standing, and that made me curiously happy (although I blushed). When I squatted down to pick him up again, he really got scared, I could see that. I guess, to him, it was as if a mountain was toppling down on top of him. I brought him to the salon, back on the coffee table. ( I suspect I found him less “threatening” when I was looking down on him, somewhere  below my knees).
We tried to communicate, but his squeaking was so low, it was really hard to follow him at times. He always repeated the same plea, of course. After a while, I improvised a bed for him in a shoe box with old undies of mine (don’t smile doctor, I really was improvising), then I promised him I would clear everything in the morning, and, leaving him in the box, I went to look for some sleep and maybe dream up a solution.

That night, as I was lying wide awake in my bed, a noise from the other room intrigued me. I found Mike playing with the phone, which he had managed to unhook. Although I sympathized with his feelings and even his intentions, it left me with no choice but to close the shoebox, and set an elastic band around it. I put it in the lower drawer of my commode near my bed and tried to think this over, listening to the tiny scratching noises. I was in hell.

I am convinced to this day, that, had Mike not tried anything rash that night, I would have brought him back to a hospital in the morning. But he did. And instead of finding a small man waiting for me in the morning, squarely demanding justice, I found a box in my lower drawer. As I took my coffee, I kept the box on my knees, thinking. But I did not open it. Call it lack of courage if you will, and you’d be right. But in a strange way, my problem seemed to have found its resolution, or at least , the box did seem to contain it nicely.

During the day at the office, I kept thinking about Mike of course, but I kept thinking of him in that box in my commode. And the initial “Mike is at my home” slowly turned in my mind into something like “ I have this strange box at home”, if you see what I mean. Without realizing it, I was, in my anguish, turning Michael into something less threatening, into a new unexpected possession, something that indeed I was keeping in my drawer. When I rushed home that day, I was actually more excited than afraid.

I decided to be strong and face the problem: when I arrived home, I opened the box and, not waiting for his reaction , I grabbed him by a leg and dangled him in front of my eyes. It was cathartic I guess, cos my problem was reduced to its real size: hardly three inches of a warm little thing. I was amazed at the sheer power of this simple gesture. An adult male, whose body and affection I had coveted for nearly a year was in my grip, weak as a mouse, and totally unable to resist any of my decisions. The feeling of absolute control sent a rush of adrenalin through my veins. The threat was suddenly gone. What remained were my whims and desires. Mike was no longer the unreachable goal of my dreams, I owned him, as no woman had owned a man. A warm tingle of satisfaction ran through my body.

I started this time to frankly manipulate him, to examine his body, without the fear and restraint that had paralyzed me the day before. Ignoring his tiny screams , I caressed every part of his body with a finger, while I felt his warmth in the palm of my hand. He was just as gorgeous in the nude as I had imagined him. I smelled him, feeling his tiny fists battering the tip of my nose. The chic aftershave I had learnt to know at the office was still lingering on the tiny man. My heart was racing in my chest, as excitement was taking over my doubts. An all pervasive desire had somehow awakened in me, at the warm contact of his small body on my palm. As I walked to my bedroom, I actually enjoyed the struggle he put in my hand, as I balanced it nonchalantly near my hip. I deposited Mike on the bed, ( he was nothing but a pink thingy on the blue plain of my bedspread) , and sat near him. I nearly had to dislodge him from under the side of my bum, as he had fallen headlong into the slope I'd created . I played a bit more with him, thinking, (he shouted a lot, but that hardly registered for some reason) and after a moment of hesitation, decided I would show him how I felt about him.

I was already standing up and preparing for the strip-tease of the millennium, when it occurred to me I was in fact no longer playing, but actually getting turned on . As I slowly began to shed my clothes, I kept looking intently at the small frozen shape on the bed. It was Mike, and I was undressing for him. It seemed so right. I felt so hot.  I cooed to him, told him how long I had waited for this moment, but his answer was lost in the rustle of my falling blouse. I wiggled my hips in front of him, removing my skirt. He was staring at me, enjoying it I hoped. my shadow was covering him like a mountainous twilight. Mike looked so frail, so much at my mercy...And then it hit me:  I was going to do it. Simply because there was no way Mike or anyone could prevent me from doing it.

There, on the spot,  I took a decision I never thought was possible in such a situation, a decision that would change the course of my life. I decided I would have him  . I would have him here and now, whether it was right or not, whether he liked it or not. A rush of excitment coursed through my body, and I smiled at tiny naked Mike. He was mine, I wanted him and it felt soooo  good.

… Yes. Yes, I’m sure you can read a lot of interesting aspects of my psychology into this decision to own my partner, doctor, but before we discuss this, let me explain to you what it really unlocked in me. I need to get a bit graphic, but I’m sure you’ve heard it all already.

Thank you. You see I was surprised myself to feel this raw sexual desire for this man still, diminished as he was. After all, what could I possibly expect from him at his size? Yet it was as I said, doctor. I wanted him, and I wanted him with an absolute urgency.

I started to undress in front of him, doing it real slow. I know I’m really pretty _ err, thank you doctor _ and I know the effect I can have on men. I offered him the best show I knew. Standing near the bed, I hovered my body over his, as I struggled to unhook my bra, and when I did I let it fall on top him . The image of this tiny man toppled down on my bed by my lingerie could have been comical, but it fuelled my desire even more fiercely. The next second bending over, I was pressing him in the sheet with one of my nipple. The contact of his tiny body against my flesh was supremely sensual to me, and I was surprised even by the intensity of my reaction. My breast was weighing on him like a steam roller, I’m sure, but to me, it was bringing sensations that were just awesome. I sat on the bed and started to play with him on my breasts, feeling his well toned body fight against my fingers. His head was so much smaller that my nipples now and his pitiful defence was really making this… interesting. I used his body to caress my thighs, my belly my neck. The sensations were unreal. Mike was protesting of course. Who'd want to be used like this by anyone? He was screaming the best he could. But it was too late really.
I was there sitting alone it seemed on the side of my bed, with only my panties on, and the man of my dreams, who had been so removed from my reality so far,  was a toy to me, and moreover a toy whose touch was more powerful than the hands of any real man. I was gone from hell to heaven.

I dropped him between my thighs, and as I started to bring them together, I observed his reactions. The walls of flesh were closing on him and I felt the light touch of his hands on my inner thighs, as he was driven closer to the only remaining space, really close to my sex. In a second, in spite of efforts to resist, I had him wedged against my panties. The sight of his body there inflamed my desire even more, and I closed my thighs fully. Only his head was visible to me, a tiny brown head pressed between my flesh. Muffled screams could just about be heard from my buried lover. This was really fun. I let him recover on my belly, caressing him with a finger. He was panting away, and I was feeling like the most powerful being in the world.

Even his screams inside my mouth were a source of pleasure. I know, I should have been horrified, but instead, it resounded in my head like the moans of a loving partner. As I sucked on his little body, I was feeling his hands hitting on the roof of my mouth, on my teeth, on the back of my throat even and it was nothing but added delights. I even resisted the urge to try and swallow him there and then, so intense was my desire to engulf him into my own pleasure. Pushing his legs inside my mouth, I stood up, my mouth full, tasting his curled body on my tongue and slowly removed my panties, already soaked. It was absolutely unreal.

His body sliding against my clitoris was such a wonderful sensation. I pressed his face in it, asking him to take me, to lick me, to pleasure me. I delicately dabbed every tender fold of my labia with his face and body, feeling my own juices loosening my grip over his wet struggling shape.  I’m sure he was a bit grossed out then, or so his shouts let me believe,  but I was gone in my own world , possessed by the sheer force of my pleasure. I stroke myself with him for a good quarter of an hour, at times wiping him against my thighs or my belly. I would kiss him, let him breathe a bit, and send him again against my throbbing clit. His negligible weight in my hand, the look of terror in his eyes was telling me I could do everything I wanted. Even when I did nothing but press him with one finger against my vulva, trying to catch my breath for a moment,  his fighting against my folds would provide delicious sensations.

I played with him in tantalizing ways, letting him “escape”, hovering my naked body over him, letting him discover the power of my feet, my ass, my thighs, delaying the moment of truth, so to speak. His attempts to run should have awoken compassion in me. Instead it made me realize how much he belonged to me , how much I craved his tiny, intense and liberating touch.

And I guess that’s the point I’m trying to make, doctor. I enjoy sex like any ordinary woman, and have had plenty of experience. Yet no man’s dick has ever brought the intensity of sensation to me that this tiny body did, as I slowly started to insert it in my vagina. It wasn’t the usual tool of pleasure I was feeling, it was the entire being of my lover that was slowly opening my labia and penetrating my inner self. I could hear his tiny voice pleading for me to stop, I could feel his hands on the outer folds of my sex, fumbling away and trying to find purchase, but it actually made my desire burn more intensely. I was absorbing him, making him mine as no lover had ever been mine before. I could feel every detail of his anatomy brushing against the walls of my vagina, feel every movement he made as he was attempting to resist the push of my fingers. And every contact of his head, hands, torso, knees on my sensitive flesh was sending stimuli of different nature, different intensity, I was finding it hard to breathe, so high was my excitement. When I closed my labia shut behind him, and tightly crossed my thighs, I knew already I would reach an orgasm that no man had ever given me. The room was rocking around me, and although I was alone on that bed, I felt my body being probed, searched, explored by this tiny being, I felt I was inhabited by the intense drama of his struggle against my sex. Bringing my hands down below, and pressing against my vulva, I locked him inside me, and relished the unfair battle between his desperation and my pleasure. It was a-ma-zing.

Guilt? Oh, yes. Plenty of it, no doubt about that. I was shocked by what I’d done to Mike, as I tried to revive him later. I had disposed of him as of a mere toy, had ignored his crying and screaming. I was mortified to discover I was able to act so selfishly, so callously towards a person I loved. The guilt was there, doctor, excruciatingly so.
… But later during the night, I re-opened the box, and despite all his begging for mercy, I inserted Mike deep into myself once again. It was even better than the first time.

And so it started doctor. The day after I went back to work, but all I could think of was putting my hands on this little body and pleasure myself all night long. I was definitely not able to concentrate on anything else. I rushed back home, and I swear, less than two minutes later, already wet below from anticipation, I could feel Mike’s tiny hands beating against my cervix. I used him three more times that night, and his screams , clearly audible in the silent room, only increased the delicious feeling of “ownership” I felt.  And I swear the pleasure I got from him kept increasing each time. I called in sick the day after and spent it with Mike, in adoration for his little body.

And that, doctor, is the main reason I need your help. These orgasms are so… out of this world, so wonderful, I cannot have a day without them, I always want to feel the small touch  against me, my body craves this pleasure like a junkie. And, well, I’m at it all the time. For the first two years , I did manage to keep the pleasure at bay, indulging only in the evenings, but for the past six months, my body seems to crave more, and I’ve gone into over-drive, so to speak.  I swear I look so tired in the mornings when I go to work, my co-workers are really wondering what I’m up to.

I'm sure you already have plenty of interesting theories regarding child-bearing fantasies etc... but you'd be far from the point, believe me. No, as you can see,  I need something  practical, something to stop these pleasure sessions and get on with my life.. I need to get back to reality  I need control. I can’t fight something this good on my on own. I crave those orgasms, and nothing a real man could propose seem enticing anymore, which is also … problematic.
 
The last time I did it? Well, actually, just about two hours ago, in my car, just outside your office, as I was waiting to go into your consultation.

Errr… to see Mike would be difficult just now, doctor… The truth is,  I was not  using Mike there… He’s no longer…. It’s not …. Oh, god. I think I need to explain to you the really shitty issue I also have with sex these days… I hope you’re as open-minded as you profess, it’s really quite a disturbing picture.

You see, Mike and I are no longer an item….. I killed him three months after our first intercourse...

Tbc

nostromo

THERAPY  Part II

I can guess this sounds harsh, doctor. Let me first say I never imagined it would end like this between me and Mike. I took him home out of love and lust. I never meant him any harm. But then there is this part of me that I do not understand… a dark area in my psyche I suppose… Something both powerful and cold, that the discovery of my dominance over Mike seems to have unlocked. I need you to help me explore this …dark side of mine.

No, killing Mike wasn’t a compulsion, or a sudden impulse. I see why you may be saying this, but in reality it took a long time for that decision to mature into a real act. Let me explain.

Our relationship was pretty intense from day one, let me tell you. I mean, it was certainly intense for me, this exploration of this new kind of love, the strange intimacy and love-making with my tiny lover. I was so into him, so eager to experience everything we could do together. I was willing to try everything our situation allowed. I discovered a thirst for pleasure and  a courage to experiment that I did not existed in me. If during the first month I copiously quenched that thirst by the… conventional means, afterwards my imagination took the upper hand and my little toy was used in more and more daring positions. I invented all sorts of interesting scenarios, invigorating chases around the house, hide and seek games on the floor, culinary games in which his little body was a wondrous ingredient. I discovered the pleasures of anal sex, of bath games, even of bondage (an elastic band was all we needed). I went wilder and wilder on him.

 Still, I thought I’d never tire of the simpler pleasures of holding him in my hand, feeling his eerie warmth in my palm. And I loved his facial expressions during our games, even when they reflected fear rather than enjoyment. I loved to see him on the white linen of my bed, as I slowly and seductively undressed for him. He was so adorable, running away from my naked body when I planted a knee on the bed, ready to join him for a long tender session. I was so proud of him too, as I stroked his heaving body while he rested on my belly, after yet another glorious orgasm. As for him, I suppose it was quite an intense period too (also very demanding physically, as you can guess). After all, I had just barged into his life to suddenly become the one and central figure of his universe. That must have come as a bit of a shock to him.

But it did not matter to me, I must say. He was mine, mine entirely. And I was quickly intoxicated by the sheer power I held over him. During the first days, I took him with me in my purse wherever I went, well aware it was probably rather uncomfortable for him down there. But I felt a positive elation from this ability to force him to witness my life, my routines, to put him in a position he could not refute. He was in my purse because I wanted him there. He belonged in my purse, as my lipstick and credit card belonged there. He was my possession. I made sure he understood that. (He got bruised a bit from the jostling in there)

And I wanted him to feel that way, I might add. Perhaps because of the aloofness he had shown me for months. In fact, I found a real pleasure in placing him in awkward situations. For instance, in the soap holder, while I was taking my shower, on the floor of the loo, when I relieved myself, on a high shelf while I watched TV. I had no qualms setting him inside my lingerie drawer whenever I felt I had seen enough of him. He became very quickly my personal thing, and his subsequent fits of rage actually gave me a feeling of satisfaction that was nearly sexual in its complex nature. The joys of domination had dawned on me, you could say.  I got used to place Mike on my plate while eating, to observe his struggle against my food, teasing him with my fork, cornering him into a puddle of sauce, forcing him to become one more ingredient of my dinner. He was no longer a man, in these moments, but a delicious looking morsel for my consumption, and I often let him know how yummy he looked to me. And I mentioned before, feeling his body on my tongue, I actually had to restrain this unholy appetite I had for him, too .

I wish I could describe this better…. I craved the touch of his tiny body. The electric contact of his complex body on my pussy walls, or his teensy head rubbing my clitoris, or my nipple, all this was so wondrous. I liked that he wriggled a lot, fought my grip, yelled and protested, and here again, I wanted him to do so. It positively enhanced the sensations. Very quickly I had found out that the domination I exerted on this hapless little man was a turn on in itself. That his humiliation was indeed added value to our sex life. I was a true goddess, I had all rights, and he only lived by my whims. The empowering feeling that came from watching his despair was mixing so well with the real pleasure of his struggling on my sensitive zones….

 No, the workplace was no reprieve for me. You see, I often kept him on me at work, and feeling him in my bra or my panties always aroused me so much, at times it was a real distraction. I asked for a part time job instead.

I beg your pardon? The killing? Well, I was coming to that, doctor. How can I explain it? The more I squeezed him, the more I crushed him, the more I humiliated him, the better the games got. One day, as I was squeezing him between my thighs, I got so hot, the orgasm got so intense, I nearly forgot to part my legs at all. The longer I kept him under duress, the better the orgasm of course. His torment had indeed become my pleasure.

And it got worse, of course.

As time went by, and like all addictions, I imagine, I got accustomed to the surreal contact of his skin on mine, to the scurrying of his feet on my belly or on my thigh. I needed more. And I found out that putting him under pressure (sometimes literally) was adding to my satisfaction. His useless defence against a crushing thigh pinning him on the sheet, or his horrified race away from the shadow of my foot or my descending belly were such a turn on. I slowly started to use my body as a instrument of terror, and to use this terror as a fuel for my lust. Enjoying him inside me wasn’t enough any longer. I started to imprison him inside for longer and longer periods. The very idea he was fighting not longer fro his freedom but for his very life was sending wonderful signals to my body. I hunted my lover on the bed with a renewed eagerness, his punishment if he didn’t dodge me becoming also more and more real. I was no longer joking when I stepped all around my little fugitive on the floor, each missed footfall, a delectable little victory. I remember fondly the first time I kept him two long minutes under my breast, allowing my full weight to sink him into the mattress. It was unreal. I was killing him. He was suffocating under me, while I gently played with myself, and somehow, this tiny drama under me was enhancing the sensations of my slow masturbation. I also…

Eventually, yes, you’re right, I guess it did wear him out. His efforts to flee were less and less convincing. His activity inside my sex was getting more sluggish. He was indeed fading away under the assault of my needs and games. But I could not accept this, nor let it diminish into a weary routine. I needed this too much, desperately even. After three months into our relationship, his unenergetic body was sadly no longer providing all the stimuli I craved; only his fear seemed to do the trick. One fateful day, I placed him under my sex, and sat squarely on him, letting just his tiny face protrude from under me, between my thighs. I watched his face reddening from the effort to resist my weight, as I played with myself, cumming all over him. As I wriggled my body more and more fiercely over him, I felt I would never let him up. Eventually, I made up my mind, driven by pleasure, and reclining on the bed, I allowed my ass to roll over his body, and I worked alone, in an eerie silence, on a fabulous climax. It was a glorious orgasm, doctor, fuelled not by his struggling body but by his death throes, his tiny insignificant life dissolving under the weight of my hips. It was truly wonderful. He was possibly still alive when I rolled over, but then I decided to insert him his unconscious body in me, and  I let my love for him crush the last breath he had, in a quick flash of pleasure.

You seem a bit shocked, doctor. Well, in fairness, so was I. I cried and was a bit at a loss. I hadn’t meant this to happen, and was quite mortified. But at the same time doctor, I was elated by the intensity of these last moments together. It had been a truly mystic experience. As I buried his body under my geraniums, I kept thinking how wonderful it had been to feel him go like this. In a way it had been an epiphany. As I put the flower pot back on the window sill, I was already contemplating ways to experience this moment again.

Yes, of course, it did not stop there. Why would I see you then?  I was craving something, and I had the means to obtain it.  All of a sudden the city had become my hunting ground.

Well, in bars, or clubs, mostly, doctor. I get those men from various sources. But the result is the same, they end up shrunk and into my purse. Sometimes, I even consume our new-found love on the spot. But eventually they always find themselves inside my lingerie drawer before too long.

You’re wrong, it wasn’t easy as pie, as you smartly say. At first I was struggling with the shrinking. Hell, the second guy I shrunk was so small, it was almost no fun. First, I hardly felt him when I set him on a nipple , it took him too long to cross my belly, and then I lost him inside, and had to rescue him from drowning (but the thought of him trying to get his bearing in the dark cave of my vagina was supremely sexy to me, I grant you that). Eventually, I played with him on my tongue, and accidentally swallowed him when I finally got an orgasm. It was great, doctor, but way too short.
But I got better with time, and now I can size them correctly enough.

Mmmm, it really depends on their stamina, I suppose. I had learned from Mike that , although they seem very durable under pressure, after a certain time, they cease to please me by their struggling. Maybe their fighting spirit gets eroded by the size of the challenge. Maybe they get despondent. The fact is I need a fresh lover once in a while, one with the proper vigour and eagerness. And let’s be honest here, dispatching them is such a treat anyway.

One at a time, doctor, one at a time. I never play with two men at the same time. I want them to feel that all my focus is on them, that this mountainous body of mine is after them, and them alone. That it needs them in a personal way, not as part of some gang of revellers. It would be a pity to dilute their emotions with the distraction of another man don’t you think. It makes for a more intimate drama too.

I have , unfortunately. Oh, in all sorts of manner. You see, their death is always a special moment in my life, and I give it all my attention. I prepare a lovely ceremony for them. I take a bath, perfume my skin, give them a really nice supper. And then I tell them what I’m going to do. You should see their faces.

Of course, I started with simple pleasures, like feeling them squirming under my the sole of my foot, while I sat in the sofa, and applied gradually a fatal pressure on their fragile frame. Or just sitting on them in my deep leather chair, rather un-dramatically. I wasn’t too sophisticated at first, rushing it.  I even wasted a few good shoes, I might add on what were really quick fixes to my addiction.  But now, I try to make worth their while too. I always find a way to slow down the action, till the moment is truly perfect. When I wish to extinguish one under my ass, I give him the mother of all lap dances. All is in the expectation, you see.

I always use them a last time though , as  a reward for both of us. For instance , I finished Gerald (an accountant that flirted with me in a seedy bar) by allowing him to give me a great orgasm, anally speaking. He was furious, I could tell, wriggling and screaming as I meticulously spread the Vaseline over his body. He had been there before, but I had told him he was to be nice and spend the night with me. He struggled at the entrance of my behind, of course, but once his head was in, he slipped inside without the slightest difficulty.  He gave me a lot of pleasure on his last night. I went to sleep, feeling his tiny movements deep up  my colon . The morning after, I could not feel anything, and nature took its course…

And there was Phil, the randy construction worker that thought it funny to put his hand on my ass in the club. After two months of deep and intense sex, I had to let him go too. I shrank him a bit more, and explained to him where he was going. I’m sure he did not believe me. That night, we had oysters. He wailed and wailed and did a hell of tantrum on the side on my plate, as I laid the dishes. He even jumped from the table, while I was away at the cooker, would you believe it. Of course he just hurt his leg. At one inch in size, there’s not much he could have broken from any fall. I sat down with him, explaining to him what I would be doing later that night, the people I would meet the day after, or next week, the place I had in mind to find his replacement, etc. You know, chatting. Then I put him on top of an oyster, and proceeded to eat all the other ones, leaving him for the finale. It was such a rush to see this once big hulk of a man, crying helplessly on the mollusc, totally at my mercy. I was getting seriously aroused by that sight. He was screaming a lot when I pressed the lemon juice over him, and was trying to crawl off the shell. I slurped him inside my mouth and let him enjoy the view, as I managed to swallow the oyster, leaving my guest stranded alone on my tongue.  Then it was his turn. I rushed to my sofa to enjoy the sensations, with a stethoscope from a doctor friend of mine, to listen to him. It was heavenly.

A puzzling fantasy, you say?. I assure you there is something so voluptuous in the sensation of this tiny struggling morsel disappearing within you like this. Their last little screams echo deep in your head as they plunge down inside, a perfect punctuation for the final rush of pleasure. And you should hear them once they start their struggle in your stomach. A glass of Chardonnay goes nicely with them, you know. Sorry, I did not mean to be flippant, but I guess my private world is somewhat unsettling.

Too many, alas, doctor, too many. My geraniums have never looked so go good. But let’s not play with figures here. As I said, I get tired of them faster and faster, and then, since their glorious deaths are such a thrill to me, their lifespan naturally gets shorter and shorter. This is annoying, as I need to spend more time finding them, like a junkie looking for her fix. And another disruption for my life, and I need to get in control of this compulsion.

To slow down,? What do you mean? If a tender sex session was enough to satiate my hunger, I’ll be the first to be happy, believe me. But let’s be real, it is really in their deaths that they achieve their maximum potential. Their squirming under my body, or down my throat has become the very reason I fish men these days. I enjoy them, I really do, but I so look forward to dispatching them in the most luscious ways. From lover and seducer , I’ve moved on to my true calling, which is to enjoy a predatory pleasure. The initial love making was really a first phase I was going through. I do enjoy their company, but from the first day they get in my drawer, I contemplate their final struggle.

Vulgar preys? No! Not at all. They’re not preys to me. I probably used the wrong term here.  I enjoy talking to them, asking them how they feel, what they would like me to do, and these sort of things. Although they are remote from me by their insignificant size, I still recognize them as intelligent being. It is just that they do not belong to themselves as most oft us do. Hell, I’ll tell you one thing: during the past months, one of my pleasures is to let them decide. To let them have the final word. I give them the choice for example between ending under my foot, or under my ass. Or between my cereal bowl and my sandwich. It’s very interesting to see them, doctor. They really think hard about this. I don’t insult their intelligence of course. Offering them to choose between my new liquidizer or my breasts, would be too easy. I don’t go into crude choices like this. But watching them take that final decision is such an exciting prelude to their final play. We discuss the pros and cons, I offer counter-arguments to their choice, etc… You should see them, when I show them the tube of Vaseline and  the olive oil! They go through such intense states of mind, while I get really turned on by their hesitation.

No, I’m hardly unkind to them. I swear, doctor! I treat them well till they have to go. I assure you that…. Ok... Ok, Yes, stop smiling.  Yes, it has happened once or twice, I have to admit it. For instance, two years ago, there was this guy, Jules. I had made love with him at real size once, and he happened to try his luck again with me in a really forceful way. I did not like that. He was a strange lad, had a real phobia for any bodily fluids, especially his own. He couldn’t stand the sight or feel of his semen. Weird, uh?   I took him in all the same, of course. You can guess he wasn’t that thrilled swimming inside me, during our many, many sessions . Well, he became so rude to me, even at his small size, I nearly had the impulse to crush him underfoot like a grape. (I make sure to do that only in the kitchen, usually, mind you, its’ really messy) Instead I gave him to my cousin Roy as a birthday present. Roy is like me, a “gifted” person, but his gift is quite different from mine. No, don’t ask, doctor, I won’t tell you. Anyway, Roy was surprised and delighted by his present. He’s gay, you see, but he’s not the handsomest of men and I thought he could use the company. He told me even yesterday he’s still taking good care of little Jules. Semen is something little Jules must be well acquainted with by now. So yes, I guess you can call this a bit cruel on my part.

Oh, and there’s Alex, that girl from Newport. God, I hated her. I hadn’t seen her in years, but I had never forgotten how she’d snatched my first love from me. She’s one of the rare persons I have shrunk out of anger, rather than out of lust. I must say this is an instance when I wasn’t nice. I used her for pleasure four , five times a day for a full month, used her during my periods, and humiliated her in my toilet. Yes, I’m ashamed to say I was horrid to her. All the more so because her torments did arouse me nicely,. I did not even grace her with the privilege of ingesting her. No, I put her in jar one day and went to the beach. I spent a lovely day with her, enjoying the sun and the clean air. In the evening, I dug a pretty hole in that beautiful white sand and neatly buried her and her jar. I remember being quite happy with myself as I sat on top of her for one hour, watching a beautiful sunset. I wonder if someone will ever find her.

Yes, that seems a bit uncalled for, I know.  But on this one, sexual pleasure wasn’t the only I was after I must say and …

Yes, yes, I still have feelings for them, even today. I really try not to get too attached, but it does happen. Nothing as wild, as with Mike, whom I had a real crush on, but yes , some of them have been particularly good friends to me (it always was in their best interest, mind you). Joshua, for instance is a man I kept for nearly six months. I enjoyed his body , just as much as for any others, and I rode him as hard as the others, but after a while, something about him stopped me from consuming our relationship, if you see what I mean.
He was a lecturer in University, has a really great conversation, and I don’t know, I started to confide a lot in him. After a while I actually stopped using him for my sexual pleasure. I got him a nice fishbowl, and he got to enjoy witnessing my life in the open, away from the lingerie drawer. I took him to the movies, to the plays. I really enjoyed his company. Yes, of course I felt I had to remind him of his duty to me, so he became my beauty expert. When I needed my toenails to be painted, or my bush to be trimmed, I appointed him to the task.

Yes, I agree there was something a bit of a perverted satisfaction to submit an intellectual to the hard physical work this represented for him, but I got such a kick from seeing this learned man stuck between my toes, like a piece of cotton, while the nail polish he had so studiously applied for two hours was drying around him. I had a hard time in school, doctor, and there was a bit of poetic justice for me to learn from him, and as the same time, to humiliate him with these venial tasks. (I often asked  him to feed me, and I tell you, he wasn’t too pleased about that. He had seen a few people follow that road before his eyes.). Mmmm? Yes… yes of course. Like the others. I asked him to prepare the burger I was going to eat him in. He was very meticulous about it. And I told him he could take a dip in the seasoning of his choice, he had been a favourite, after all  …. Sorry, doctor… I know, I shouldn’t giggle about that….

My real sex life? But…I was just… Oh, of course. I know this sounds like an elaborated fantasy to you. To tell you the truth, I’m not ready yet to delve in my unhappy childhood. Yes, I’m sure there’s plenty of keys to what has been happening to me recently but exploring this is beyond my patience for our first session. Just now, I really need to share this with you. It’s a real confession for me. No one has ever been privy to this stuff, you understand why, I’m sure. Remind me, this is all under the patient/doctor confidentiality agreement, is it not?  I thought so. Not that it threatens me much, mind you.

You want to see one, I understand. You wish to open my eyes to the “real” world, that makes sense. You’re into straight talk, aren’t you? No, no, don’t be sorry. That’s all good to me. Well, doctor, in truth, if I showed you one, it would be you whose eyes would open to the reality of things. But yes, I agree. If you could see them, the way I see them, it would be so much easier for you to understand my view point….. OK. OK. I will bring one for our next session.

Oh, doctor, I get goosebumps just thinking about them. I adore them so much. They are so tiny. So fragile. So…insignificant. You can kill one by just shaking them too hard, you know. I lost one one day by just wiping my juices off him on my thigh. A simple gesture, and  “snap” , a dead toy.  It’s even hard to hear them when I make them really small. To come back to your previous question, I can detach myself from the usual feelings I have for regular people, because, frankly, they’re just no longer regular people. I wish I could see them as such, but I can’t. They are mine. I feel really strongly about this. They enter my circle, and from that point onwards, they belong to me.  (It’s not like I can revert the shrinking, doctor. I can’t. I tried, but I can’t.) When I see a man like this, trotting helpless below me, trying feebly to avoid my footfalls, I feel this surge in me. Desire, lust, control, I strongly react to them. My body does, and so does my mind. They fascinate me, they turn me on so completely. This takes precedence over these feelings you keep mentioning.

Please, a drink of water would be lovely, thank you. I get all worked up taking about this. But what can I say, feeling their tiny shapes in my vagina, as life slowly ebbs away from them or knowing I am the living tomb they disappear into when I swallow them in my morning cacao…. Oh my… Just talking about it , I…

Doctor?

….Oh….

….Oh shit…

…Where ….?  Ah…

Here you are….

Oh, doctor, I am so sorry!!.... I didn’t mean to….…..You see what I mean now by being out of control!

 Damn… What? … You have to shout louder… No, no, I assure you, it’s really happening. I promise you, I’m just as distraught as you are! Honest!
It’s all this talking and evocation and … it really got too me. I feel so hot… Damn.

Sorry? No, of course, not. You’re coming with me, doctor. I can’t leave you here!Hey, you might even … Hold on …

Damn… this skirt is so… Ah, at last. Wow… I didn’t figure you out for a screamer, doctor.  Hold on, please…let me…

There, that’s better. Oh, they’re all wet already…..Yes, you are going to slip in nice and easy. ….

We’ll start our conversation later, if you don’ t mind. For  now , what I really need is….

Oups… careful those little arms, doctor…. Very slippery isn’t it? ….Mmmmm, there… In… you… go….. hey , that feels sooooooo good. … thank you so much…

Oooooh… You feel so full of life in there….. and a you’re a squirmer too… Great!…Hold on…. Let me put these panties back on…. There…

Oh, yes……mmmm…. Please carry on….Oh, Shock therapy? … I like your approach…. I think we’re going to get on great , doctor…. Don’t exert yourself too much , please,  it’s a good three hours drive to my house! Can you hear me? …. <gasp>  …. But I think we’ll stop somewhere on the side of the road, if you don’ t mind ….

the end. 

nostromo