This is the first story I've written in a bit. Apologies if I'm shaking off the rust. It's on the darker side of things, but if you look close, you'll find some light here, too.
NSFW, like usual. You all know what I'm about.
Thanks so much to Elle Largesse (https://twitter.com/mightytinygiant) for beta reading this story, and improving it dramatically. Thanks also to other beta readers who didn't wish to be named.
CW: shrinking woman, NSFW, sizes from ~five feet to a few inches, non-consensual, gas-lighting, emotional abuse, “hypnosis,” 24/7 Master / slave dynamic, crying, brief impact and breath play, light sexual pain, speech and language restrictions, implied Daddy Dom / little girl dynamics, unreliable narrator
One-shot, 4390 words
I start to get antsy around five thirty. He’s on the train by then, probably. Almost home. I should do something to prepare, I think, but I'm already groomed, and I’m already dressed the way he wants. I finished all my chores hours ago.
They’re so much easier these days.
I end up pacing back and forth, wearing down a path in the living room carpet. Like a dog who knows it’s almost time for dinner. I’m not sure whether it’s Pavlovian Conditioning, or if he’s taking direct intervention this time. But I’m already panting for him, even before I hear footfalls on the front porch. My heart starts to race, my chest tightens, and I think how embarrassing it would be if this was just the mailman. Especially if they happened to look in the window. What would they think? That I’m just a very petite housewife with an odd sense of fashion? Or would they guess that something more strange is going on.
But then the key crunches in the lock, and the door swings wide. He’s there, in jeans and flannel. A big man. So big that my head doesn’t even reach his sternum. He smells of the day, and of the outside world. Fresh air, and casual exertion, and that particular brand of aftershave he always wears. They say scent is tied more strongly to memory than any of our other senses, and I remember that I loved him once. Before all this started. I still love him. It’s just hard to trust that feeling now.
Master gives me that knowing smirk, cups my cheek with his rough hand, and I’m a puddle. He straightens my toga for me, and strokes my hair. He asks if I’ve been good. I nod, and he smiles, and it’s like the sun finally coming out after a hundred years of darkness.
“Come sit with me,” he says, and hooks his thumb in my collar’s metal ring, the place he’d attach a leash if he ever needed one.
He tugs, gently.
I wait obediently, with my hands clasped behind my back, the way I’ve been trained. He makes himself comfortable, unhurried, taking his sweet time. At last he pats his lap, and I was hoping for that, or at least it seems to me now that I was. But if I’m at all conflicted it doesn’t show. I climb up at the speed of instinct, like he’s tapped my knee with a hammer and I’m helpless to resist the impulse deep in my animal brain. I lay face down across his thighs. A month ago, when he asked me to do this, I needed his help. Or at least his patience, while I climbed up the side of a couch meant for someone five times my size. I’ve grown a lot since then. I’m almost big enough that the furniture seems built for me again. I’m still on the small side, but that just means I’m the perfect size for his lap.
He pets me, and I arch my back to meet his giant hand. My hair, my shoulder blades. The nape of my neck. This goes on for a heavenly eternity. I’m literally purring. But also, I’m biting the inside of my cheek. Hard. Trying to keep any sounds from escaping that are too encouraging, that would make him take this a step farther. Trying to remind myself not to get too excited, not to let his touch carry me away.
“You’ve been very good lately, kitten.”
I squeak with glee. My toes curl with pleasure. I bite down harder.
“You’ve done everything a Master could want, and more.” He strokes down the path of my spine, into the eager little cusp just above my tailbone. “Except.”
“Something feels a little…. Off. About your… appearance?” He chuckles softly, and gives my butt two quick taps. “Roll over.”
My body obeys before I can even process the command, and I’m staring up into his eyes, a deer caught in the headlights. He inspects me, and I don’t even dare to breathe. I hold completely still, except for the goosebumps, and how the pounding of my heart makes me shake a little. He lifts my chin with the tip of his finger. Makes me turn my head from side to side. Then runs his fingernail over my bare shoulder, down my chest, parallel to the line of the simple white toga that is my uniform.
He stops beside my hip, where the garment is tied.
“This,” he says, thoughtfully. “There used to be more fabric here. When I first made it for you. Didn’t there?”
I’m so scared I can’t even make my eyes focus.
“As I recall, it didn’t fit nearly so tight on you, either.”
I say nothing.
“Hmph.” He stares off into the middle distance, looking displeased. Then. “Go get your tape measure.”
I’m off at once, scurrying through the house as fast as my little legs can carry me. God, where is it? He hasn’t asked to measure me in weeks. Did I leave it in the bedroom, or in my sleeping nook? I’m letting the front-of-mind task consume me. Because I already know what he’s going to find.
It’s beside the measuring wall, of course. I grab it, and I’m about to run back to him, maybe he’ll be merciful, but then I’m caught, just staring at this simple white wall with a dozen little pencil marks inscribed upon it. At a dozen heights I’ve been, each time he felt it worthy to note my size. I don’t remember any of it – the marks, or the sizes. Just a vague sense of something that happened once, like trying to recall a vivid dream two weeks after you’ve had it.
This wall is the history that he won’t let me remember. Some marks are fascinating, like the one around the level of my hip, and I can actually remember that one, because it’s when I started growing. Other marks I can’t even make myself look at, and that must be his doing, his manipulation. There’s one around my knee like that. And the one at the very very top, I can’t even bring myself to see out of the corner of my eye. Most are very far down. I’m caught up in horrified fascination, trying to forensically reconstruct my life from the stories this wall has to tell, and that’s when he comes up behind me.
Without a word he turns me. Presses me against the wall so hard it knocks the air out of my lungs, makes me lift my head and stand up straight. He marks off my height with a pencil, then shoves me out of the way, unrolls the measuring tape.
Master clucks his tongue. “Four feet. Seven inches tall.”
Neither of us say anything. His expression is blank, impossible to read. All at once he lets the tape measure roll back into its spindle, and the sudden sound and motion makes me flinch violently. But I don’t run, because where would I run.
“I’m honestly impressed,” he says, at last. “At how much willpower this must’ve required, to grow yourself back. You never could’ve managed it in the early days. I’d put you to bed, and find you smaller every morning. After I’d spent the whole night making you shrink. You were positively insatiable back then. Do you remember?”
He reaches down, touches the collar, and makes me remember. Pours the memories into my head, until they all but overwhelm me. The feelings rush in – embarrassment and regret and nostalgia, but those emotions are background. Mostly I feel the sick excitement that used to rule me. The delirious joy of being his, back when all this was new.
Even then, I knew what was making me smaller. I’ve always known, because it’s always been the same. I wasn’t just allowing him to do it to me. I was seeking it out. Prostrating myself before him, each night when he came home. Begging him to touch me, with gesture and action, because words were for big girls, and I was not a big girl anymore. Doing chores all day to earn his attention. Then presenting myself before him, like a poor little animal in heat. He’d touch me. And because of the rules he imposed, and the words he whispered into my collar, each time he pushed me to release….
I’d get smaller.
“You were so creative,” he drawls. “At finding all the ways we fit together. All the different things I could do to make you feel good, so you could get smaller. The experience of playing with you was so different, when you were three feet tall, instead of four. The same for two-foot-six… or one-foot-three. Always fresh, and always new.”
I can feel my cheeks burning, as I remember it now. Even when he spent all night, wringing every last drop of my essence from me until I was too exhausted to crawl to bed without his help, I still wasn’t shrinking fast enough. I needed more. I’d stay up late. Curled in my sleeping nook, far across the house, where he couldn’t hear my moans. And shrink myself smaller.
My head is spinning, my mouth is dry. I’m getting wet. Why do I like this so much?
No. This is his fault. He’s controlling me. Forcing me to like it. That has to be it.
“I never once saw you react to getting smaller with anything other than satisfaction, and a desire for more.” He pauses. “Except that one day. It broke my heart, to see you so miserable. I had to take that memory from you. For your own well-being. Do you want it back no, kitten?”
I shake my head no, the pigtails he makes me wear slapping me hard across the face.
The bitter day comes into focus, memories rising out of the fog until they fill my vision. I try to pull away, but his hand tightens on my collar.
“I know. It was awful, wasn’t it?” His expression is sympathetic, but I can hear something else in his voice. “The day you were finally too small to take my cock.”
I felt frustration that day. Then it dissolved into anger, when I realized what I’d become. I couldn’t even be his fuck-toy anymore. I was something less, much less. And even as low as I’d become, I still wanted to be lower. I didn’t want to stop, couldn’t make myself stop.
He cups my cheek, and runs his thumb along my bottom lip. He hasn’t done this since we cuddled in post-coital bliss, and we haven’t done that since he could fit inside me. The simple affection of it – I can’t believe how much I’ve missed it, how badly it makes me want him.
I can’t think, I can’t think.
“I understand,” he whispers. Almost purrs, but predators can purr, too. “That’s why you were growing, wasn’t it? Because you wanted to be big enough for me. That’s why. Isn’t it, kitten?”
I realize I’m nodding. Of course. That was why.
He presses that thumb just a bit harder against my lower lip. I taste the salt of his skin, the familiar flavors of his body. It’s such a strong sense memory, this taste, and I can’t fight anymore. I let go of this pointless resistance. Open my mouth, just enough to take him in. And start to suck.
I cum almost instantly. Not a powerful, earth-shattering orgasm. A weak, pathetic thing, escaping from me like an almost-suppressed sneeze. It’s the first I’ve had in weeks. I’d almost forgotten what they felt like. But it’s not nearly as pleasurable as the sensation that comes next. A yawning, urging warmth, in the pit of my stomach, just beneath my navel. Spreading all through my body, like honey, until it fills me up, and then it pulls back, and I start to shrink.
He picks me up then. Cradles me like the helpless little thing I am, like he wants nothing in this world but to take care of me. Master carries me back to the couch, unwraps my toga. And starts to touch me. He leaves his thumb in my mouth so I can suck, so I can moan around him, so the neighbors won’t hear, because at my size I’m actually capable of being that loud. I’m on fire for him, want him so badly that nothing else in this world matters. I’d pay any price, give him anything. Give him everything – every bit of me. Until I’m practically nothing.
He goes slow with me. Pulls my strings like a puppet, plays with my desperation. He pushes me almost to the breaking point, then eases me back. Again, and again, and again. I whine up at him, look at him with soft, pleading eyes. I’m too big. I shouldn’t be big. I shouldn’t have tried to be a big girl, and I just want him to take it away again, make me pathetic like I deserve. I want him to fuck me and use me and tell me I’m good. I almost find my release four times, and each time he pulls away he laughs, and I whimper, I feel my sense of helpless need for him increase.
He’s rubbing the edge of my slit so gently. Pressing down on my pelvis with the heel of his hand. It’s enough, but barely, just barely, and he looks at me, lets me know with a tiny move of his eyebrows that he won’t pull away this time. I chase that sensation with everything I have. Every muscle in my body tenses to push. It takes so long, his hand is over my mouth to silence my screams, and when I finally push myself over the edge, when that orgasm comes, it’s an absolute revelation. I squirt like a geyser, soaking myself, and his jeans, and the couch, and a little bit on the wall. He grins, and massages my own juices onto my bare skin. Soaking me all over, getting it in my hair and on my face, my tits and tummy and toes. Baptizing me in my orgasm as I shrink smaller in his lap.
Master unzips his jeans. Eases his cock into view. It’s so beautiful. Already it looks so much bigger than it was yesterday, and getting bigger as I shrink, but not too big, no not yet. I spread my legs in anticipation, and touch myself. He lifts me. Makes me face away from him, fits my head just beneath his chin. His gigantic hands squeeze my thighs, and it feels good to be surrounded by him like this. He tells me to relax, not to hold my breath.
There’s pressure. I open my mouth and howl, and it’s good, but it’s so much. So much. I can feel every millimeter of him as he enters me. I realize I’m holding my breath, and it escapes in a sudden gust as the head of his cock forces its way past my lips, and I cum again before I can even suck in the air I’ve just pushed out. He holds me against his chest as I shrink, as my whole body spasms for him like I’ve been touched by a live wire.
He’s not even very deep inside me. Not even halfway yet. Just holding me a few inches above his lap, both legs dangling helplessly, as I shake and cry out for him. He doesn’t even have to move to make me cum again, but the instant I do he releases me, lets gravity pull me all the way down onto his massive member. And another orgasm starts, before the last one is even finished.
I’m shrinking fast now. I’ve never shrunk this fast. He must’ve done something with the collar, or else denying myself so long made it more powerful. My head is sinking lower against his chest, my feet sliding higher up his thigh. Master is stretching me more and more with each thrust, and I don’t ever want him to stop, but I’m cumming every few seconds and I know this can’t last. He’s already bottoming out, the gigantic head of his cock pressing against my cervix. He intervenes, lifts me higher so he can keep fucking me, keep the balance between pain and pleasure in my favor, but now I’m too small to take all of him, and he’s still getting bigger. I think about how he feels this enormous when he isn’t even all the way inside, and it pushes me to my next orgasm. It’s so much. But I can do it. I can keep going, I can keep going, my mouth foolishly tries to say, but all that comes out is a low animal howl, followed by a little mouse-hiccup as my body gives into him again.
He stops before I’m ready. Starts sliding out of me. It’s slow, and it hurts, but I can feel how gentle he is with me. There’s a feeling of gnawing emptiness and suddenly he’s all the way out, and I gasp and claw at him. Try to get him to put it back in. I feel so hollow without him, even as my groin aches and my hip flexors grumble with how far I’ve been made to spread my legs. I’m growling at him in inarticulate rage, and he clamps his hand over my mouth, throws me down on the couch, pins me. He jams his middle finger inside me, not bothering with ceremony, and starts to thrust, hard and fast and deep. It doesn’t fill me or satisfy me nearly as much as his dick, but it does the job. I shrink around him, and drool all over the inside of his palm. He finger-fucks me smaller, and after a few more orgasms I stop fighting to get back up on his lap, because it’s clear I’m too small to have any chance of taking his cock. It was such a brief summer, when I was the right size for him again, and it’s already over.
I become aware that I’m crying.
He picks me up, carries me to the bedroom. Letting my chin rest on his shoulder, supporting my butt. I’m clinging to him. He’s enormous. Three, four times my size. He’s speaking to me, but I can’t understand. He’s made me forget language entirely, or else I got too overstimulated to understand it anymore. It’s isolating and scary, and something inside me starts to twitch and thrash like a wild falcon in a too-small cage. But even this feeling can only escape me in one way, and my fingernails dig into his neck as I cum from the sheer adrenaline.
Master lies down in bed. Pulls the covers up to my chin. His voice is soft, soothing. It makes me relax. I don’t fight him when he starts to touch me again.
I’ve never been this small before.
He’s using just the pad of his smallest finger, and I squirt again, but I’m too tiny to make any kind of a mess. I’m still utterly soaked from the last time, when a much, much bigger version of me had a much bigger, and more significant release. Now, nothing I do matters. And it’s mattering less by the second.
Time loses all meaning, and the world keeps growing. My body, assaulted by pleasure, unable to resist him even in the slightest. Now I’m too small for his finger. He lifts me, presses me to his face like some hors d'oeuvre. He savors me with his tongue, moaning in satisfaction. I grasp his beard in my fists as I cum, using him for leverage so I can grind my white hot sex against the rough texture of his tongue. And again. And again. Until he’s supporting me with just the tip of his thumb, and I think if he doesn’t stop I’ll break...
He stops. Grasps me between two fingers. And pulls me back so he can inspect me.
I’m not his maid anymore, at this size. There isn’t a single household task I could accomplish. I’m not his pet either - though the collar has shrunk with me, as it always does. Am I even his toy? If so, what use could I be to him at this size? I’m not even as tall as the fingers that hold me.
He grins. That titanic, terrible face, that I adore beyond all others. Even beyond myself.
Master is pleased with what he’s done.
Yet. I’m not happy. And I’m sure it shows on my face. Because he frowns, too.
“Remember,” he drawls. “That mark on the wall? The one that was very, very high?”
No. Please no….
It floods back in an instant. Memories, from my old life. The numbers come first. Six foot four. Trapped in a body I hated. Always the wrong shape, like I didn’t fit in my own skin. Intimidating to everyone around me, ignored or ridiculed by anyone I wished to draw close. Master. Though he wasn’t Master back then. He was the first one who understood. He loved me, he said. And always would, in any shape or size.
A mysterious little shop I found. A collar. I presented it to him. Explained how it worked. We made an agreement.
I was scared, at the end. A part of me too proud to let go. He promised he’d take that burden. Carry it for me, as long as he could.
I kissed him. We said some words together.
I don’t know if any of it is real. It feels real. It always does. But this memory is so visceral. The relief so sharp in my mind, as the collar fastens without a clasp around my neck. The way his voice shakes on his first tentative commands. That first time I shrink. Riding atop him, the inches blessedly, gloriously leaving me.
If it isn’t real, then it’s the fantasy I’d choose.
It’s gone, quick as a wink. I was thinking of… something. Whatever it was, it’s beyond me. I only know that I’m smiling up at him. And Master looks so, so proud of me.
“There’s my good little kitten. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
I don’t know what this means. But it feels good when he calls me good, so I nod at him, and blow him a tiny little kiss.
He lowers me. Lifts the covers, navigates my miniscule body through the dark cavern beneath his blankets. Something smells so, so good, and I sense what he’s about to do, just before he thrusts me inside his soft cotton boxers. I’m laughing, and grinning, the happiest I can ever remember feeling.
I set to work. He’s already hard, and from the way he quivers at my touch, he’s been on edge for a very long time. I can feel a giant vein thicker than my thigh, and I squeeze it between my legs, and his pulse quickens. In the darkness the head of his cock lifts, throbs gently, and I can smell something new. It’s pungent and sweet and good. It fills me with such love for him that I don’t know what to do with myself.
His moans are earthquakes. His exhalations a distant hurricane. I can feel the heat coming off him as he gets closer to the edge. And I try with all my might, but I’m too small for him. Not strong enough, and even with my best efforts I know I’ll never, ever be able to get him off. I feel useless, but it’s a good feeling somehow. Because there’s a simple joy in an impossible task, when it fulfills your purpose just to do your best.
Finally, Master helps me. Thrusts himself into the dark, and with one divine hand, he squeezes me, and he squeezes himself. Once is all it takes. Just at the last moment his thumb flicks, and he pops the head of his tree trunk cock outside of his boxers, away from me, and this is smart, so smart, because I want to lie with him after and not worry about clean-up. And then he’s cumming.
He’s throbbing and bucking beneath me, and I hold on for dear life. My grip fails me. I’m thrown from the top of his cock where I’ve been riding, into the slack space of his boxers. I slide down, thrashed about like a ship in a storm, finally I come to rest underneath him. In the dark I feel the massive weight of his shaft pressing me down, and I don’t fight it. He’s so heavy, and it’s hard to breathe, but the weight is good. It’s only the tingling sensation in the back of my neck that tells me I’ve just had an orgasm of my own, that I’m shrinking for him. But in the presence of such majesty, how could I do anything else?
We lie together. His breathing slows. He softens, bit by bit. The sound of the blood rushing out of his fading erection is the perfect white noise. It’s warm, and comfortable here. I’m safe.
He sleeps. As I start to drift off myself, I consider how small my world has become. I could live my whole life upon him, beneath him. He is my world now. But that was true even when I was much, much bigger. How much bigger? Is a scary question, and I’m suddenly grateful that I can’t remember the answer, even if I tried.
Something else occurs to me. It’s the last thought before sleep takes me. If he’s my world, then I am his, too. Because in every single memory I have of him, everything he has done has been for me. I’ve had many roles for him, at many different sizes. But always he has done more for me than I could ever do for him.
I’m his burden.
But if that’s true, he doesn’t seem to mind. Quite the contrary. And it’s so nice to let yourself be carried, sometimes.
So I decide. If I’m a burden, it’s a good thing I’m so tiny. That makes me much easier to bear.