Its... different, he reported. I wanted more and stated so. If Im to write about any of this, Im going to need more. I dont know what else to say! Its fabric, and its rough, he maintained.
I looked at him from my vantage point. See? Its not rough to me! To me, its a cheap pair of jeans that fits the way I want it to fit, and it feels quite soft. He looked at me from his point of disadvantage, and he imagined that having to stretch his neck to such a degree just to return my gaze gave him license to stop touching the thick denim seam that traveled up my inner thigh, the one Id ordered him to stroke. Why dont you just write what you think I feel when I touch it?
I said nothing. His bravado shocked me. Part of me wanted to thump his little crown and dump him in the hot, tight hell that burns beneath denim and panties. In fact, I did... later. Then I only stared, and said nothing.
What? Can I go to sleep now? Im very tired!
A single, wet click left my mouth. Tsk. He knew he was crossing me, but he also knew theres a percentage of me that he can play; a part of me that sometimes lets him go to sleep. He used to depend on it with greater frequency, but that night he played the odds, as pathetic as they had become.
Ill take that as a yes. Would you please tuck me in? He took another backstep, even though there was nowhere to go but the edge of my chair. He stopped making that free-fall jump to the floor years ago, soon after I zapped him with my shrink ray and removed him from his perfectly adequate life. At two inches in height, he didn't weigh enough to hurt himself with any severity, but he also knew there was no point in that dramatic display of rebellion since self-injurious tantrums are the ones I punish the hardest.
I said nothing but responded as my hand moved from the keyboard to him. This was his moment. This was when Id wrap my fingers around him and kiss him goodnight, or Id squeeze him back into his duties. He lost. I brought my forefinger against his back and put him in his place as he yelped audibly.
How does it feel? I said as I pressed his fragile contour into the yielding wall of my crotch, split in half vertically by a broad seam that dug into me as it welcomed him. I flattened the padded surface of my finger along his body an imperceptible fraction. The pressure was minimal. It wouldnt have played a piano key, it wouldnt have crushed an ant, but I knew he felt it in his two hundred and six bones as his body sunk into that fabric he called rough. If he gasped, I didnt hear him.
How does it feel? I repeated, fascinated by the sensation of holding a small fragment of flesh against me with a single digit; by the knowledge that it was an entire life, full of every convoluted component that his parents threw together the moment of conception. Now I was telling him to describe the denim covering my crotch.
"I I cant! Let go of me! I cant breathe!
Far above his plea I thought of his spine, and I tried to count his ribs by touch, but theyre too small, and as sensitive as the tissue on my fingerpad is, I couldnt sense anything beyond the frantic splay of his limbs. I released my hold of him with studious care, letting him slip slowly from my grasp in a manner that ensured his front slid on denim until he landed on his feet, back again on the polished wood of my chair. I removed the escort of my finger and watched him fall on his bottom.
How did that feel?
He looked up at me, and I could have sworn I smelled enough adrenaline on him to keep us up all night. It wouldnt have to be that way if he answered my questions to satisfaction. Thats what I wanted; fulfillment in knowledge; nothing as prurient as a demonstration of power in size. He looked up at me, and I was sure I saw resentment. I loved everything about him, including his baser responses.
How did that feel?
Rough!
You already said that.
Well, write it again.
Do you require further help?
Help never meant help with me, and he knew that. In the alternate dictionary hed been writing in his head from the moment I shrank him, help meant a stern response to his refusal to cooperate.
No! I it feels like what I see is a pattern in the threads, and they are so big that they look like electric cables and theyre not round, but flat, and not woven in a criss-cross pattern like I thought they would be when I was big but they look like
I want to know how they feel. I dont care what my jeans look like up close.
But Im getting to that! Just let me talk! He sat there, deeply conscious of his sitting position, and I knew his elucidation was a delay tactic. I allowed it. He knew I was going to make him get up again, and I was glad he remembered. I gave him a slight nod.
The pattern looks like staggered rectangles, interspersed with squares and they feel soft to you, right? But what I see is a nightmare of escaped fibers that look like wires! Like white and blue wires that scratch my skin, that you want me to touch.
Id moved my hands back to the keyboard, and Id been writing what he described. I only stopped typing to look down at him between my thighs, and to give him a firmer nod than the one hed seen before.
Why? Why do you need to know what denim feels like? It doesnt make any sense to me. How many people in the world care about the texture of denim at my scale? I can tell you right now that none do. Zero! That includes me.
When I was growing up, my mom always told me to choose a partner I could respect. She never told me theres a middle ground between respect and disregard. Its possible to love a person, to love a toy, and to ignore what they say because you know better. That was the feeling in me as he berated me. I knew better. I always did. I resumed typing.
Yes, I want you to touch it. The wires are not wires. They are 98% cotton and 2% spandex. I want you to look at the fibers and find a way, like a spider on her own web, to feel my denim without sticking, without scratching, without complaining.
Why?
You need clarity. Youre distracted. Ill get the beer.
I lifted off my chair like a rocket to the moon and left him reeling in the flames of my wake, chittering a response I didnt hear as I walked to the kitchen and back with an unopened bottle of beer and a mug in hand. There are a few rooms into which a woman like me can walk with any degree of pleasure. Some contain a loving partner, others keep a few friends, a good party, an excellent book, but my favorite room to return to is the one that contains a fearful toy. Id walk across hell to get back to that room. As it was, that night I only had to step back from the kitchen to get back to my fearful possession.
No! Theres no need for beer! Ill focus, Ill concentrate.
"Shh... You know youre distracted, moody, exhausted. This always helped you when you were my size. Now it will help even more.
I sat down hard in my chair as he kept to the safe, triangle-shaped territory in it hed learned to calculate into the equations of his survival. He was facing away from me. I gave him a cursory look before I bent the cap teeth with a bottle opener and poured the contents of the entire bottle into the mug. Hed never be able to drink that many times his own weight, but he could swim in it. As the hoppy bubbles fizzed, I peered down at him again and watched him look over his shoulder.
The wooden promontory on which he stood afforded him no refuge. To each side of him there were two unassailable thighs, to his back there was my massive crotch. Beyond the edge of my chair, there was a drop to wooden floorboards, framed by my calves and feet. I watched him prefer that drop to the pool of beer Id prepared for him. I watched him make a run for him, with enough space in my chair to gain momentum before his leap. Another tsk left my lips as I watched him leap, and broke his fall with the curve of my lower leg. I felt the soft mass of him land on my foot and watched him roll off it and land on my floor.
I had days before I had to make a single move to recapture him. Well, maybe not days, but long enough. He was running for dignity, not to escape. I considered bringing down my foot on his body for just a moment. I believed myself able to do it gently enough to simply capture him, but I wasnt sure. What if the annoyance I was beginning to feel influenced the way I sent signals to the heft of my foot? What if a lizard-brain temptation to see what happens guided my dexterity and made it fail? What if I crushed him? I entertained the notion long enough to smirk and dismissed it as I set my body after him.
It didnt take long. There was nothing but the floor under the table, and nowhere to hide from me. I captured him in my fist and sat back down in my chair. Without warning, I opened my fist over the mug of beer and released his body into the golden liquid. It landed in the thick head, and I giggled when I saw the way it broke his fall. Ha! he said from that frothy bed, and I almost wanted to watch it recede. It wouldnt have taken long. Instead, I chuckled in his direction and returned my finger back to him. Those two are well acquainted because he lost a bit of color when he saw it. His eyes shot from it to me back to it, and he was still forming an appeal when I drove him deep into the drink.
I couldn't have kept him under for very long, because he climbed his way up the girth of my finger until he was above the liquid surface, yet still under the enduring head. I wondered if I should help him, and decided that watching him displace foam from beneath it was far more fun. I paid attention to nothing else until the disappearing bubbles and his struggles met in the middle, and his head emerged. When I saw his tiny face, I wondered how drunk he was, and felt enough mercy to blow my breath into the mug and clear up the beer's surface. He failed to send me a thank-you note. Instead, he yelled at me.
Why do you do this? Why?!
I noted his speech wasnt slurred. I pushed the mug a few inches to the side and my fingers danced on the keyboard until a different chapter of my book opened up. It contained a chart on which I made changes.
What are you doing? Stop typing! Dont ignore me!
I tilted my head and shot him a curious look.
Sweet little man, Im doing anything but ignoring you. Im simply recording rates and speeds. I believe you should be drunk
Im not!
right about
Get me the fuck out of here!
now.
Oh Jesush fuck.
See? If Id merely made you drink it, it would have taken longer for the alcohol to take effect. This way it absorbs through your skin, the fumes penetrate your lungs, and you are under the influence even if you tape your mouth shut.
I wish I had soh tape!
Im going to leave you there a few more seconds
No! Take me out of here! You dont want me to die of al..col poising!
Thirty seconds should do the trick.
Pleah! I toush the denim! I toush it so good you won even know. Pleash get me outta here.
Its not only about compliance. Its about the truth. I want you to be unable to hide the truth.
Twenty-nine, thirty seconds. He was still begging to be pulled out of surface tension Id never understand when I fished him out of five-minutes old amber and lifted him to my face. He was still screaming when I air dried him with my breath, and he stopped moving when I threatened to make him drink more if he didnt calm down. There are few things in the world that give me more pleasure than ordering him to feel as I want him to feel. Im aware compliance is impossible under such conditions, but all that does is make my orders perennial. I set him down before my looming crotch once again.
"Tell me how it feels."
I watched him stagger to and fro, and felt my face change with the tug of a smile. Hed fail every sobriety test in the world right now as he zig-zagged his way back to the conflation of seams and fabric that towered over him. He practically hurled himself into the distended wall, arms stretched to encompass as much space as he could.
"It fee great. It feel fucking great."
"That's not enough. Don't internalize your evaluation. Evaluate every square foot between my legs with your eyes, your skin, your little cock. Not with your heart.
I still feel the fibeh, but Im crashing into them now. I dont even care if they scratsh me now. I know Im going to be a mess tomorroh moning, but righ now I just wan to be coverd by you.
I typed every word, minus the slurs.
More.
I looked down and watched his arms reach as hard as they could to each side of him, and never reach the spread of my womanhood. I was tempted to stop writing then, but sobered up with a deep inhale, and pressed on the keys.
Denim is a nightmare. I don know what you writin up ere, but whatever you do, write that down. Your fuckin jeans are too tight, and I think you should not you should not you should not
Uh-oh. He was fading. I typed up a few more words and saved my doc. It was time for fun. I chugged the contents of the beer mug and opened up a bookmark loaded with lewd content. I rolled over his body when I found something I liked and thought of the world.
I clicked the mute button on my desktop so that I could hear him scream as I began to rock over the tiny lump of his body. That thick denim seam and his form under it were all I needed as I thought of the world. The entire world shrinking.
I was writing a manual. A manual for shrinking. Soon, half of everyone on Earth would need to read it. The other half would need to know what to expect when faced with gigantic walls of rough fabric, and demands for pleasure that seem too overwhelming to be met. I knew better as I ground into his struggling form. Its entirely possible to cum through denim. You just have to own the right lump.