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