My therapist said it was "cuteness aggression". My friends tell me it's normal to pine after them. They tell me they feel the same way; seeing a tiny gives them that same forceful squee. The desire to squeeze and pinch their cute little bodies. They say it's fine to want a tiny girlfriend. They tell me it's whatever year it is and tinies can date whoever they want. There's even that lesbian bar with a tiny stage for little drag shows. If I wanted to pick someone up, figuratively and literally, I could.
But they don't understand. I don't have those feelings they have. I have something darker, and sometimes I hate it. I knew I was attracted to other women early on but my sexuality wasn't awakened until I started to meet tinies. Now that I'm taking college courses with them it's all I can think about. When I see Amy J. in her little chair at the front of Mixed-Size Studies cross her legs and toss her hair over her shoulder I don't feel infatuated. That squeezing desire doesn't stop at caressing her skin or pinching her hips. When I see her bare midriff I don't imagine a loving caress. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, but not to see her smile.
I flick through her emotions in my mind, playing simulations over and over. I imagine what she would look like crying. I imagine what she would look like if she was in pain. My fingers tense, and I press my thumb into the pads of my fingers as I imagine the pressure around her. I bite my lip as she shifts in her seat, facing away and unable to know I'm finger-fucking her in my mind. The lecture fades away, and I can almost feel her between my fingers. She raises her hand to ask a question and in my mind's eye, I hear her voice. Begging. Screaming.
She turned her head, possibly feeling my gaze. She couldn't possibly know, nobody could know. I felt my face turn red, realizing I was staring as her gaze met mine. I quickly flicked my gaze up to the whiteboard as I brushed my hair behind my ear. I wiped my other fingers on my jeans as if to wipe away the stain. A nervous tick. She turned back forward again, oblivious. She'll never know how I think of rubbing her remains on my knee. Nobody will know. I relax my legs, unclenching my thighs. Class is no place to fantasize. It was only a fantasy, after all; I'm no monster. These urges aren't me, it's just a daydream. A tantalizing nightmare.
Living this way is something I've come to accept. Tinies are just people, and it's normal to have fantasies. Everyone talks about falling in love with the barista and wanting to make out with Professor Earnst. Mine are like that, but not OK. I could have picked up Amy. I heard sheâs even into normal women, fresh out of a breakup. I know I could ask her out and it would be fine. But I donât trust myself. The fantasies get stronger with proximity. I almost stepped on someone last week and Iâve been fucking myself silly about it ever since. What if it had been different? What if I had stepped an inch closer? Would it be slow or fast? Crunchy or squishy? Would there be enough time to scream?
I looked down at my feet. The black and white Converse were weathered, having been my only school pair for years. I turned my ankle over, tilting my right foot sideways to expose the tread. What would it have been like? I indulge myself a little, my imagination painting a red masterpiece along the sole. I remembered the look on his face. I donât even like men but that look⌠Fuck. Primal fear. He just stared at my foot as I apologized. He couldnât look away.
âGreene?â
I snapped back to my seat as the professor called for me. He was looking at me over the top rim of his glasses, disappointed and waiting.
âCould you repeat the question?â I asked.
âWeâre sharing our thoughts on the poem Wouldnât Hurt a Flyâ
I had done the reading the night before. It was from a tiny author, a civil rights activist. It was actually rather good, and there was a certain haunting tone to the work.
âI kinda liked it, I guess. I felt like it was really evocative for what itâs like... To⌠well, you know.â
âThe experiences tiny individuals face?â
âYeah. And, like, being treated like bugs. Sometimes.â
âThank you, Miss Greene. Also a reminder about the use of B word in class, even as a demonstration.â
âRight. Sorry.â
âAnd can anyone else tell meâŚâ
His gaze lifted, and the attention on me moved to the next student. I briefly caught Amy Jâs eyes as she turned to look back at the board. She probably didnât like the bug comment. I knew it was a bit of a touchy subject but it was difficult not to compare them. I wouldnât call a tiny a bug to their face but I did almost squish last week. They arenât bugs. Crushing an ant doesnât mean anything. These urges arenât placated by finding snails on the sidewalk to splatter. Killing a bug is meaningless but killing someone like a bug makes me feel something. Desire isnât the right word. I donât desire air. I just breathe.
Itâs their faces, Small. Sweet. Innocent. Iâm not a monster but I have monstrous thoughts. Squishing a person? Can you imagine? Itâs not a meaningless speck. It has hopes and dreams. Itâs a world of possibility. Itâs love and hope and future plans splattered across my foot. Everything a person is, ended in a step. Someoneâs greatest fears, their wildest aspirations turned into a red smear. As beautiful as it is terrible. The beauty of a person turned into a screaming, begging, snapping horror.
I blinked and unclenched my thighs again. This class was so boring and I needed to fantasize just to stay awake but I took it a little too far. I needed release, and I needed Amy J to stop touching the back of her neck as she ran her impossibly small fingers through her hair. She moved delicately, like a clockwork doll. A fragile little toy. Helpless. Beautiful. Filled with hot red life that I needed to feel. On my hands, dripping between my fingers. Smeared across my lips. Begging, screaming for me to stop. Fuck.
I started to pack my things. The lecture was only half over but I needed release. My head was swimming in red and when I get to that point it doesnât just stop. I pushed the thoughts from my mind, focusing on what was in front of me. My books and laptop slid into my bag and I made sure I had my phone. My hands were shaking a little but I collected everything and sat for a moment, waiting for a good time to get up.
Amy J looked up at me as I walked by. My face must have been so red. I walked quickly for the door, not caring about missing attendance that day. If I stayed any longer Iâd wind up in one of those textbooks about tiny atrocities. I needed to let off some steam and refocus. I was in control, these thoughts were just background radiation. A secret I needed to take to the grave. Half of me wanted to be normal. To not have these kinds of thoughts. It was shameful, not just that I thought about it but that the other half of me didnât want to stop.
I made it to my car, parked in the back of the student lot near the treeline. It was really quiet and would stay that way for around a half hour longer. People always left on the hour between class rotations. It was just me. Me and the memory of Amy J.
I closed the door and looked around the parking lot to double-check. My eyes searched the lot for movement but I wasnât fully there. I was in my head with her, picking her up like a little toy. Pressing my thumb into her midsection until I hear her squeak. I unbutton my jeans and pull the zipper down just a bit. Nobody was in the parking lot. I tugged at the recline lever and leaned horizontally in the front seat.
I pictured her face, scrunched up and crying. I pictured her bewildered. I pictured her looking at me like I almost just killed her. Like Iâm about to try again. I was already incredibly wet, no surprise. I started with slow, small circles. I pictured her little tits, playing with them as I played with myself. My fingertips zeroed in on my clit, and my eyes closed. I heard Amy asking me to stop, telling me I was hurting her. My fingers refused, her pleas only emboldened me.
Her tiny body was shaking for me. I pictured her begging. I pictured her on the worst day of her life. She begged me to stop but I couldnât. Her pretty face was twisted. I stretched my leg out and placed it behind the gas pedal. The car began to rock gently as my thighs flexed to the rhythm. Amyâs limbs flailed to the tempo of my pleasure. I pictured her gorgeous face, smooth features, and delicious texture. A work of art, rising to a higher state. I pictured her under my foot, contorted and howling. I pictured her gasping and gurgling, unable to beg. I pictured her on the last day of her life.
My tempo sped up while the waves of pleasure rose and fell. I slowly increased the pressure on little Amy. Tiny helpless Amy J. She looked at me and her pleading eyes to ask âWhy?â as I rocked my foot back and forth over her. She broke. Her eyes stared in horror. I pictured her in her final moments. She was ready to die. Ready to break for me. I turned her into paste.
I tried not to scream, savoring the imagined final pop. My body convulsed as the fantasy exploded under my foot. I let out a few short bursts of high-pitched moans, drowned out by the squelching in my mind. One final twist and itâs over. I collapse into the seat and relax. Her ruined body faded from my mind, but there was still a little tingle along my sole where Iâd imagined her demise.
After a moment I zipped up and leaned forward. The coast was still clear. Nothing to worry about. Just needed to take care of myself. The shame struck again, stronger without the pleasure to overwhelm me. I would never do such a thing. A terrible monstrous thing. I rotated my foot, looking at the spot where Amyâs stain would be. Nothing was there. Only a fantasy. Amy is nice. Iâm not a monster. That was fucked up. I needed to stop. I didn't want to stop.
âWhy am I like this?â I whispered to nobody.
I reached into the glove box and pulled out some napkins. I wipe off my fingers and tried to clean myself up a little. I looked at the time on my phone. I had enough time to make it back to class. I felt like I could at least go back and focus on class.
I walked back to the bathroom first, in the hall along the way to the lecture. Yui was inside, washing her hands. One of the students from *Mixed-Size Studies*. She smiled briefly and then left. I felt embarrassed, knowing that Yui knew I wasnât in the bathroom after I left. Whatever, I thought. She can think what she wants.
I washed my hands and checked myself out in the mirror. My hair wasnât the worst itâs been but the humidity had made me look a little crazy. I tried to quickly preen my hair and splashed some water on my face to help my flushed cheeks. Satisfied, I walked back to class.
Amy J was sitting as she always was, in a cute little chair on the tinies section. They had their own table and walkways to get around and sometimes got rides from their friends. Amy J looked at me and smiled, and I managed to smile back. I tried not to think about popping her body like a bug as I walked past. The professor was still droning on and hadnât seemed to notice my departure much less my arrival.
Before I could walk by the tiny section, Amy J stood and waved. I looked down and scrunched my brow. Amy held a slip of folded paper, around half her size. She held it up towards me. I looked at the professor and back at Amy. Her sweet smile was like a lighthouse. I took the paper and quickly returned to my seat.
My heart was racing. I placed my bag down and withdrew my notebook. I placed the slip of paper on my desk to read it inconspicuously. It was torn from one of the regular notebooks, with too large of margins for a tiny. It was folded over multiple times and had neat tiny letters printed in ink. I unfolded it and found a short excerpt from the poem we analyzed in class:
Unaware, Uncaring
Deadly in your misstep
I was bright red. Did she know? Could she tell by my look how Iâve crushed her in my dreams? How Iâve longed to hear her last desperate gasps for mercy? Does she know Iâm a monster? I turned the note over to find handwritten words scribbled by small instruments:
give me a ride after class?