A man came into the room.

The room was light and airy, with several columns of tall windowpanes stretching from thigh-height to the vaulted ceilings. The windows looked out over a rolling lawn fringed by dense brush and varieties of hardwood deciduous trees. Beyond the private forest to this property, the sun was setting, casting the room in a cozy saffron glow.

In between the windows hung small gilt frames holding quaint European landscapes done in oil. In dark wood there was a china cabinet, and in this was stored a dozen antique pitchers and urns. These were of cut crystal or exquisitely painted porcelain, and they spoke of an era of elegance long since passed.

The gentleman was tall, with calm, chiseled features framed in wavy chestnut hair blunted around his jaw. He wore a linen peasant’s blouse with banded collar beneath a form-fitted black vest, and his black trousers were of a flattering cut to his long and lean frame. He carried a covered meat platter in polished silver in his hands, hoisted around chest-height and transported with particularly assiduous caution.

His footsteps rapped softly against the wood parquet floor, then rasped near-silently upon the carpet beneath and surrounding a long dining table. The table and its twelve chairs were all masterfully carved in an understated art deco style, all of the same wood as the china cabinet. Above the dining table hung a modest chandelier, also in cut crystal, and it bore actual tapers, which had been lit five minutes prior by one of the gentleman’s assistants.

All of this, everything in this room was personally selected by the gentleman, for whom resources were no consideration. What he should desire, he should have, and have it the way he would. His staff supported him in this on those few occasions his aspiration excelled his personal ambit.

With his back to the bay windows, the gentleman carefully placed the covered platter at the head of the table. So carefully, in fact, it resembled tenderness or affection. He nodded appreciatively at the illuminated chandelier, and he turned to draw the sheers for each of the windows, letting the sunlight suffuse the gauzy fabric and glow as though incandescent.

This done, the gentleman merely clasped his own hands, inhaled slowly, and turned to a built-in hutch (also done in the same dark wood as the table, chairs, and cabinet). From a quietly fragile cabinet he withdrew a single silver pitcher, a small one, with a hinged cap done in baroque whorls. This he placed to the upper right of the platter, where the drinking vessels would ordinarily go. He pulled open a long draw in the front of the hutch and selected, among a broad spread of fine silver flatware, nothing more than a large soup spoon. So armed, he closed the drawer, stepped to the head of the table, and took his seat.

The staff were excused from attending to this room in the mansion, from the moment the sole member lit the candles in the chandelier. Everything else that occurred here, the service, the setting, were part of the private ritual of the gentleman.

He paused, briefly, noting his reflection in the curved dome of the platter’s cover. There wasn’t a single streak visible anywhere in the meat dome’s surface, so the reflection appeared nearly lifelike but for its gross distortion. The gentleman waited for three more seconds before raising his right arm and wrapping his fingers around the cast acanthus leaf handle. With one swift motion he lifted the dome away, without the slightest ring of metal on metal as it cleared.

In the center of the platter lay a miniature woman. She had long hair, the color of desire, that spread about her head as she lay supine upon a white linen serviette, protecting her from the cold metal tray. She was completely nude and only several inches in length, with a lean, fine body somewhere between raw adolescent musculature and a toothsome, matronly padding. At the sudden disclosure she blinked and scrunched up her face, raising one thin arm to shield her face from the light.

She may have scowled, but she was of such dimensions that the gentleman could only find her expression charming. Gently he placed the dome aside and, with a slight wave of his spoon, bade the tiny woman to stand up. She did so, apparently comprehending the gesture. The subtleties of her muscles tensing and tendons flexing were entirely lost, at her size, so she only resembled a detailed doll that picked itself up and righted itself.

The gentleman tugged her serviette away and tucked it by one corner into the neck of his collar, letting it drape down his chest in rehearsed affectation. With another gesture, one resembling the downward swing of the spoon to crack the caramelized shell of a crème brûlée, he bade her take a seat upon the silver tray. This, however, was a less intuitive gesture.

“What the fuck is going on here?” she shrieked, in a tinny voice. “Who are you? Where am I?”

The gentleman winced briefly but lost none of his benign comport. He only leveled the tip of his spoon at the woman’s sternum, politely between her round little breasts, and quickly nudged her off balance. Her bottom struck the polished metal surface with a pleasing muted thump, and the gentleman permitted himself a restrained smile.

“Watch it! That hurt!” The little woman’s hair was disheveled. She leaned back on her arms, clearly scowling now, with her little legs gracelessly splayed. She only stared up at him a moment longer, in fact, before leaping up and sprinting to the gentleman’s left, presumably away from the hand that held the spoon.

Her tiny footsteps rang out against the tray in a quiet chiming. The gentleman appreciated their tones briefly, then slightly raised his forearm to block the fleeing woman. She was unable to adjust her sprint and plowed directly into his cuffed wrist. She collapsed promptly, the wind knocked out of her. The gentleman said nothing, studying her for a moment before slipping the soup spoon deftly beneath her bottom and supporting her back. In this manner he lifted her easily to the center of the tray once more. He dumped her upon the metal surface, then rested on his elbows and laced his fingers beneath his chin, gazing down upon her. The glowing curtains behind him took on a persimmon hue, highlighting the errant curls in his hair.

The tiny woman looked up at him, coughing for breath, then glanced left and right without much subtlety. The gentleman only arched an eyebrow at her. Her shoulders slumped slightly and she made no further move.

Nodding slightly, the gentleman transferred his spoon to his left hand, then reached out with his right to take up the small silver pitcher. It had been filled and warmed prior to the candles being lit, waiting for him among three others in the hutch. They were marked, and he knew which one he wanted for this occasion.

The tiny woman’s eyes tracked his every last movement, following the length of his arm beyond the perimeter of the silver tray, watching the vessel float through warm space just above her. As if hypnotized, she made no move to protect herself as the gigantic man’s thumb flipped open the silver lid, as his hand tilted the silver pitcher over her.

A thick, orange syrup flowed over the lip of the pitcher, taking its time to build up to a mass that would fall, and streaming in a thick, begrudging stream through space to coat the little woman. Immediately it pooled around her miniature breasts and crawled over her taut belly, flooding over her hips, her inner thighs, and her minuscule womanhood. It poured over the metal tray and ran around her buttocks.

It was warm, so sugary and warm. The little woman’s eyes went wide with surprise as the thick fluid flowed like lava. She gasped at its luxurious temperature, so in contrast with the silver tray beneath her; she moaned slightly at the pressure of the heavy fluid nudging at her chest, throbbing into her labia and thighs. The giant, elegant man kept pouring, never coating her face or hair, only precisely pouring thick, then thin streams over her hips and pussy.

Her skin shivered with an unusual, foreign pleasure as the dense marmalade flowed over her body, building up in a tenuous mound, then heaving over her right hip, seeping up between her buttocks. It was a mess, it was a thick and sweet mess, and it coated her sensually as she stared up into the nearly passive visage of the giant man. All her questions melted away as the syrup bore upon her, trickling and oozing over her sensitive skin.

The gentleman lidded the pitcher and set it aside. Taking the spoon up again in his right hand, he once more cradled the tiny woman in it and slowly lifted her to his face. Marmalade overflowed and threaded from the spoon to the tray. The woman’s expression tightened from its momentary delight. Her mouth gaped and her breath hitched quietly as she drew closer and closer to the giant man’s face, to the mouth that opened very slowly. Her ineffectual kicks arced in space as he hoisted her directly to his lips. Before she unbalanced herself and fell, he supported her upper back with the tips of his middle and index fingers on his free hand. And as she swung up one of her tiny, adorable feet to kick at the giant’s mouth, he simply caught her ankle with his tongue and wrapped his lips quickly around her calf. With the pinky of his left hand, he gently nudged her other leg into his lips as well.

She shrieked. Her tiny hands gripped the edge of the spoon and she tried to push herself off the back, as though unthinking of the fall to the table. Her pelvis rocked back and forth as she pumped her legs alternately, yet was unable to free them even an inch, whether an inch to him or an inch to her. She screamed at the steamy exhaust that blasted over her sticky-sweet body from his nostrils, her fine hair waving in the breeze. Her abs tensed and contracted, and she swung up to beat her tiny fists against his upper lip.

He let her. The gentleman had been in this situation before and expected it. He let the tiny little hands bounce off his relatively tough lip. He let her deflate herself with screaming and shrieking and protesting, though he wished she wouldn’t swear. And when she was suitably tired out, he slowly rubbed his tongue over the soles of her miniature, exquisite feet.

That shut her up. Lying in the soup spoon at his mouth, the little woman’s eyes flew open once more. Her entire, diminutive body shuddered violently with the overwhelming sensation of hundreds of papillae running, hot and wet, over her sensitive and tender soles. It was so much more than ticklish: it shot electricity up her legs and into her crotch. All the gross muscles in her body misbehaved, and she writhed and jerked without intent as her little body flooded with the new sensation.

The gentleman’s broad and thick lips curled in a gentle smile, on either side of her knees. He lined her calves with the gripping taste buds, loosened his lips, and slowly sucked her a little more inside the cavern of his mouth. His lips, soft and hot, now wrapped around her waist.

Terror returned to her at this. She was staring straight up into the inky blackness of his nostrils. She could barely see his eyes over his high cheekbones. The enormous room around them grew dimmer into varieties of red, with long shadows stretching over the pale walls and elegant furniture. She slammed her palms upon his upper lip and hove mightily against him.

And then the thick tip of his tongue prised her pony thighs apart and nudged at her womanhood. It was as though some container of fluid within her abruptly tore or shattered or otherwise flooded throughout her body. As the blunt head of the giant’s tongue prodded and shoved at her hips, a slow growl was compelled out of her lungs and throat, and she reclined once more into the spoonful of marmalade.

He couldn’t possibly enter her, but he didn’t try to. He only ran the hundreds of papillae over her labia, rasping everywhere from her buttocks to her mons. They dragged over her inner thighs, and soon they picked out the subtle difference between the tangy bite of marmalade and the salty honey of the little woman’s lubrication. This delighted the gentleman, waiting as he was for it, and the blind, crude head of his tongue nudged at her insistently, seeking out more of her juice.

Without squeezing her unpleasantly, his lips latched around her midriff, where her vulnerable organs shifted without the protection of ribs. He created a vacuum in the chamber of his maw, holding the woman in place and preventing her from entering further, but also creating an unusual pressure in her legs as he sucked and pooled the blood into them. This was not his object: he only wanted a few more precious drops of the sacred fluid of her arousal, and he released the pressure of suction to cleanse her legs entirely of the orange syrup and rub, relentlessly, against her pussy.

Her little breasts lulled in the hot jets of air from his flaring nostrils. She clamped her thighs around his thick, rolling tongue, trying to grab him, latch onto him. He kept nudging, breathing on her, with the rounded edges of his incisors only resting against the small of her back, and soon she came. She threw back her head and shook with the orgasm, with lust shot through the threat of death. Her butt swam in his saliva, her thighs scissored around his patient tongue, now still, then active as he probed her for more of her delicious lubrication. He loved it, and she allowed herself to love how much she loved it. She peered up at the sheer cliff of his face, trying to pick out the features of her otherworldly lover.

The gentleman hummed to himself, hummed around her entire body. His deep voice vibrated all throughout the liquid in her own little frame, stimulating her skin and overstimulating her womanhood. But it was nice, she decided, and she grinned up at him warmly and hummed back. It was a kind of communion, as she saw it, the narrow overlap where they could speak in a shared language, orgasming and humming. In fact, as she stroked his upper lip affectionately, she thought−

The gentleman merely turned the spoon, opened his lips, and piled the little woman into his mouth. He canted his head back, opened up his throat with practiced discipline, and slid the tiny body wholly into his gullet. She shrieked all the way down, her tiny hands pawing at his slimy esophagus. He could feel her struggle in a satisfying lump down his throat, and he let her struggle. In the past he might have topped her off with a mouthful of wine, but these days he was fully committed to being present with the experience. Absently, his fingertips ran lightly over the brushed pewter buttons of his vest as he estimated where she must be inside him at each stage.

When he felt her tiny legs kicking against the floor of his stomach, he dabbed the corners of his mouth with his serviette and rose from the table. His shoes whispered over the oriental rug around the table, then rapped against the parquet floor, then exited the room. After a respectful period of time, the staff would enter, clean up behind him, snuff out the candles, and draw the drapes to plunge the dining room into darkness.