As Rosemary held the front door open, she said something that sounded odd at the time.

“This place is my sanctuary.”

I entered her place of mystery. It wasn't the first time she had mentioned sanctuary, but now there was something different in her voice.

She took my coat and ushered me into her combination living and dining room. I stood and watched her hang our things in a closet.

“You know,” she continued. “You're only the second sweetheart to visit my place. The first one was five years ago.”

Well, this was spoiling the mood, I thought. “You don't have to talk about that, Rosemary.”

“Well, I don't want to avoid it either. My last boyfriend came here, it didn't work out, the end.”

The end?

“I'm sorry to hear it,” I said, grimacing over my choice of words. Could we talk about something else?

I took a long look around, told her I liked her place, and settled into a chair. Rosemary left to make us some drinks.

Rosemary was a mature looking lady, with short hair and a no-nonsense expression. She resembled the women you see in old movies or television westerns; a frontier wife or mother, pretty tensed facial muscles that suggested tension or concern. I liked it. It was reassuring and strong.

Her occupation was licensed nursing assistant. This meant long hours, afternoon and nights on weekdays. I didn't see much of her then. Weekends were a time for both of us to relax.

We had dated four times when she first brought up the idea of sanctuary.

Ironically, she was sitting on my couch, close to me, when I mentioned that I had not been to her place yet, and I would like to. Her reply took me aback.

“I think of home as my sanctuary. I don't let just anyone in.”

Ah, I thought darkly. So her home is a pure, unblemished temple, and I'm a nasty virus.

“Well,” I said. “I still hope you invite me there someday.”

Someday turned out to be two weeks and three dates later. We had been to our favorite Mexican restaurant, thoroughly enjoyed ourselves, and were heading back to our cars. She stopped, seeming to have made a decision. “Follow me to my house.”



***

It's now a week later. Still trying to clear my head, to piece together what happened. Here's what I can tell you.

Rosemary put something in my drink. I passed out and came to, transformed into a much smaller version of myself. My new girlfriend (?) nursed me back to health while also acclimating me to my new world.

She never said I was her prisoner, or anything like that. I was just made to understand that I wasn't going anywhere. We ate our meals together, hung out together, slept together. When she had to work, I was free to “come and go” around her apartment, but not outside the front door. Of course.

When it came to lovemaking, she told me we would “take things slow” until I learned her body. I had made love to her exactly once, before, at my place. This was a whole new world, of course. Once, she set me before her parted legs and let my explore. All I could reach were her buttocks and the flesh around her anus. If I wanted to go higher, I'd have to get there under my own power.

Somehow, I did.

Kissing her was a slightly different experience. At first, she held me to her lips and expected me to start kissing away. But in her grip, that didn't feel right. I finally asked if I could lay in her palm, for my comfort and hers. My face collected more spit that way, but I didn't mind. Altogether it was an unusual but pleasant experience.

Our first fight was short but important. I can't remember what started it, but it was probably based on my feeling of powerlessness, and lack of choice. I might have said something like, “I want you to change me back right now! I can't be stuck this way.”

Her eyes and expression told me I'd said the wrong things. She looked at me evenly for a moment, then said, “How dare you. You are in my sanctuary, a guest inside my house. I let you in. You should feel fortunate.” Then she leaned in as if she might strike me.

I walked toward her on the tabletop, fighting my fear. “I'm sorry, Rosemary. I'm still sorting all this out. I didn't mean to yell, or be disrespectful.”

She didn't answer, but took me in her hand and carried me toward her couch. Once there, we watched television in silence. After a few minutes she unbuttoned her blouse and held me to her nipple.

I made love to it as if it were a most desirable woman.


***

A month has gone by since our fight. There have been moments of tension but no shouting, thank goodness. We seem to have reached a truce.

I have now explored her entire giant body. Small imperfections, which I really noticed in the early weeks, are now unimportant. The sex has become more frequent, and she seems to enjoy it.

I'm glad.

There is never any talk about about changing me back, or even if that's possible. She once murmured something to me after an especially passionate late night session.

I'm still puzzling over the meaning of it.

“When you decide that you agree, you will be free.”

Did I? Am I?