“Noooo please don’t move, you look so perfect right there!”
She pouts, though it barely hides the gleam in her eyes as she sets you back down on the shelf. To your left, a decorative pincushion with a frog head. On your right, a dollar-bin figurine of what could generously be called a lizard, with charmingly slapdash paint. Your neighbors in the keepsake stash beside your new owner’s bed.
“I really have to focus on work, so please don’t make me put you back again, okay?”
A finger rubs your head, she gives you a gentle pat, and trots back to her computer desk. She glances sideways at you, and lights the monitor with a flick of the mouse. It’s not totally your fault. There wasn’t a reason to believe your crush was being literal when she complimented your outfit, when she asked if she could take you home and put you on display. The first hour wasn’t too bad. It was terrifying being shrunken down, scooped into her hands, carried in darkness back to her place, but at least it was her hands. The next hour was even kind of good. She explained to you what was expected, that you would sit still on her shelf, that she would keep you, and care for you, and all you had to do was sit there and look pretty. It sounded so sweet, from her soft lips. Her voice washed over you, your focus addled by the melting feeling you always had around her, now magnified by how big she was compared to you.
The next three hours proved more tedious. You’d already introduced yourself to all the other inanimate figures on your shelf. You’d marveled at being in her room so long that it could only be improved by touching it. By being touched. The escape attempt was almost worth it just to get put back in place, her fingers delicately wrapped under your arms as she plucked you from the comforter. But would she be frustrated if you tried it again? You don’t want to inconvenience her, but maybe in some weird way you’d hoped this would be more like a date? The wood floor is getting uncomfortable, and your back is stiff. You yearn like nothing else to be touched, played with, to bury your face in her sheets, or her clothes, and after that, maybe even go back to your regular life. It’s a fantasy, sure, but that doesn’t mean you want to throw it all away for this.
She plucks away at the keyboard. She sighs. She shifts in her seat. Glances at you. Smiles. She smiles because you’re being good. That has to count for something, right?
She pushes back from the desk, stands, stretching her arms skywards, and walks in your direction. You perk up. Is it time? Maybe the shelf was just an obedience test, and now the real fun can start. She hasn’t looked at you yet, but she’s getting closer, she’s raising her hand and…
Opening the door. Walking through the door. Shutting it.
You blink, mind reeling with dropped expectations. Should you move now? How long will she be gone? Why didn’t she touch you? Surely, she must want to as much as you want her to! She picked you up off the ground like loose change, but you must mean more than that to her, right? The door latch clicks, and she peeks her head through
“Lunch break, stay put, okay?”
Shut again, distant footsteps.
This
time, even as your body screams to make your move, you stay. You can’t
bear to disappoint her, to see that lovely smile drop because of you.
You still have to get out, somehow, but maybe it could wait. Better if
she keeps enjoying you, right? You try to find a more comfortable
position. The frog proves too big and too firm to be a proper chair or
pillow. A squishy alien toy works a bit better, though the silicone tugs
your hair. You could take off your shirt to use as a pillowcase, but
that still feels a step too far. Maybe she just likes you for your
fashion sense. Maybe you really are just a doll to her.
Why does a part of you want to accept that?
You close your eyes,
the yearning simmering. Maybe she’ll take you to her desk after her
break. Maybe she’ll pet your hair, or undress you and tease you, or give
you some sort of prize, or treat. Its hard to think of anything that
isn’t her, how desperately you want her to treat you as a person, how
much you’re enjoying that she isn’t. How unbearable all of it is.
At some point, the daydreaming turns to regular dreaming, and you don’t hear her return.
It’s dark when you wake up. Your mouth is dry, your stomach empty. There’s a sticky note as tall as you are attached to the side of the frog. You can’t make out the writing, but below it is a bottlecap of water and a wadded portion of some kind of pastry. A muffin, possibly. You begin to satisfy your cravings, drinking deeply, eating gratefully. At least she hasn’t forgotten you’re a living being with needs. There’s a lingering whiff of scented candle in the air. It’s so quiet as to be meditative—the only sound a faint whooshing of the breeze outside. It makes for a pleasant white noise, as you finish the last few bites of your dinner. Then, from somewhere, creaking. And a voice. No words, just a very soft moan.
Below you, so far below, your crush is wrapped in blankets, snoring softly. She must be asleep but… more rustling, a sigh. Movement under the covers. Is she thinking of you? Is she awake? Dreaming? Does she know she could have you if she wanted, even as small as you are? Especially as small as you are?
Looking down at the shifting darkness is making you dizzy, like standing on a cliff above a dark and stormy tide. But you can’t look away, either. You lie on your belly, one hand gripping the corner of the shelf, the other, almost automatically, slipping under your waistband. Her hips brush the side of the bookcase as she thrusts languidly below, jostling it, and by extension, you. Is this close enough to what you’d dreamed? Is it wrong to be watching this? She must know you’re there, enough of a person to feed, but apparently not enough not to masturbate in front of. So are you a pet below her notice, or a person that she’s toying with? Or is she really asleep after all? Will she be embarrassed when she wakes up? Smug? Indifferent?
The shelf rocks again, harder, you gasp,
pulling back so you don’t fall. She moans louder, a hazy, drawn out
whine, her pace quickening. She rolls onto her back, her free arm
reaching up to grab her headboard. A blessed streak of moonlight shines
on slightly parted lips, the scrunched muscles of her forehead. She
sighs hard and heavy, hitching as she feels out an especially nice spot.
Your eyes have adjusted enough to the gloom that you can almost see her
legs bowed out under the blankets, knees making a tent above her groin.
She presses her arm inwards, pressing her hair over her face, chest
pressing upwards as she arches her back. The blanket slips down to her
waist, her belly exposed, shirt creeping up. Her breasts flop to either
side under the fabric, jostling slightly as she rocks back and forth.
She whispers something…
You hold your breath, realizing you’ve been matching her rhythm.
She whispers again, and this time you catch it.
“…more…”
She groans, sitting up suddenly, adorable bedhead swiveling as she shakes off a fraction of her drowsiness.
She tilts her face towards you.
Her eyes flutter halfway open.
She smiles.
And wordlessly, her fingers wrap around you.
She giggles slightly, lifting your arm out from under your pants, and sets you face down on her stomach. You try to say something, your face is pressed down by two fingers, muffling you in smooth skin. Her fingers slide down across your back, push out towards the sides. Your muscles ache needily from the accidental shoulder massage, but the gesture isn’t repeated. The massive fingers pinch you between them, and slowly move you down. She pulls the covers up, and plunges you into darkness.
The smell of her is inescapable, humid and heavy in the closed atmosphere under the blanket. She presses you lower, over the waistband of her panties, bringing you face to face with a damp spot on the fabric. Fingers nestle onto your back again, and she presses you closer, moving her hips as before, but this time bringing you for the ride. You gasp where you can as she grinds you in, deep enough that the cotton folds around you, and you can feel the shape of her pussy underneath. Through the barrier, your chest rubs against the firmness of her clit, her inner lips trailing to either side of your close-pressed body. If her panties weren’t stopping her, your legs would slip inside so easily, and the rest of you would follow. Her thighs squeeze firmly, trapping in the heat, the scent, a little bit of sweat, forcing you to hold your breath as all the air is replaced by her flesh.
You are overwhelmingly grateful when she releases, and your lungs fill with her intoxicating aroma.
Everything lulls to a pause, your heart pounding in the sudden quiet, her body rising with careful breath.
She tugs you sideways, closer to her thigh, nestled against the inner band of her underwear. The skin here is even softer than on her belly, the pheromones magnitudes more intense. You unthinkingly bury your face in the crease, kissing it devotedly. Far above, a ticklish laugh from her. Then the band unhooks. You fall into the crotch of her panties, and she snaps them shut. Back to her. Right where you belong.
Inside is damp, slick with her, making it hard to keep yourself in place. Your face is buried in pubic hair, arms scrambling to hold you their while intense heat radiates from your chest and downwards, where your skin meets hers. You wait for her to move, bracing for her fingers to press against your back. But she doesn’t, instead rising slowly under you, hips lifting experimentally. She wants to do this hands free, you realize. She expects you to be a good toy and satisfy her on your own. And just as you understand this, the world slips out from under you, plummeting back back down. You lose your grip, slipping from her mound, fully pressed up against her lips. Your arm is trapped between them. Maybe it isn’t stuck in her, maybe you’re stuck outside of her. Tentatively, you slide your hands between them, pushing them apart enough that you can slip your upper half between them.
If your senses were flooded before, now they are entirely taken over. The air is thicker than a rainforest, the smell musky and sweet, the warmth making it harder and harder to think. Your cheek rests against her clit, throbbing needily for you. Your legs kick out, your one lifeline to pull you out if you start to slip in. But you aren’t thinking about that anymore. Your mouth opens, and her taste floods it. Your tongue seeks the edges of her clit, and you are rewarded with a monumental quivering, a pressure that must be her thighs clamping again, and then release, leaving you to it.
Your head moves on its own, nodding, rubbing on the walls, kissing every surface you can, lingering at the spots that give a pleasure response. Your own hips press hopelessly at her, still blocked by your pants. But your hands are too busy to care. Your head is clouded with the need to be closer, to make her feel good, to be rewarded with an earthshaking moan that acknowledges your efforts. You barely notice the heavy atmosphere anymore, it is a part of you now, it guides your thoughts and pushes you further. Thighs clamp, hips buck, your eyes are useless under the layers, but you sink into her wetness, her concentrated essence. The sounds of her body rubbing on itself, on your entirety. It weighs you down, it draws you in, seals around you.
You
hadn’t noticed your legs curling in, your knees try their hardest to
emulate the end of a finger reaching deeper into her. You scramble to
turn yourself around, feeling the walls clenching around you, each
flutter of her thighs holding you firm. Your clothes are soaked through,
weighing you down. You reach for her lips, trying once again to part
them enough to breathe, but this time, your muscles are tired. How long
have you been touching her, licking her, massaging with your hands, your
elbows, your knees? And still, part of you wants nothing more than to
let go, to allow yourself to be lost to her depths.
But self-preservation pulls through. You pull yourself out just enough
to poke your head and arms through. Luckily, she seems to have slowed.
When you rest, nothing threatens to push you back in or seal your exit.
You tap at her thigh, trying to signal that you need her help, but she
doesn’t respond. In fact, she doesn’t move at all. You breathe slow, the
outside of you still smelling like the inside of her. You listen
closer…
She’s snoring again. After all you’d gone through, as your world was awash in intensity and sensation, she’d only felt a pleasant enough effort to lull her back to sleep. You try once more to tug your way out, but your strength is gone. Even if you could pull yourself out, the elastic of her panties would probably keep you plastered against her. And still, that haze surrounds you. You aren’t moving any time soon, though the gentle pulse of her breathing makes that pleasant enough. It’s only a matter of time until you’re dreaming about her again.
You stir awake to the almost unfamiliar smell of fresh air. You squint at the sudden sunlight, but the world blurs before you as you’re shaken side to side. You’re dangling, pinched under your arms by your crush-turned-owner.
“There you are! I thought you’d tried to run away again! I was worried sick about you!”
You’re still damp from her natural lubricant, it seems you were only recently retrieved from her underwear. She leans against a tree, morning light filtering through its leaves. She is glancing around nervously.
“You know, there’s easier ways to hitch a ride! What if I hadn’t found you?”
You try to speak to correct her, but she presses you into an all-encompassing embrace at the center of her chest.
“I’ll deal with you properly when we get home but for now….”
She presses her fingers into shallow pockets, tries the back pockets and frowns.
“I wouldn’t want to crush you in there so… just promise you’ll stay put, okay?”
Before you can ask any questions, she lifts you past her shirt collar, plunging you into her cleavage. Though less stuffy than her panties, her generously sized chest still squeezes you into place, pressed into a bra that seems to fit “just enough,” with just a hint of moisture forming from her morning walk. At least it’s still bright, you can almost peak your head out to see-
“Oh no, someone will see you like that! That’s no good.”
One of the walls lifts away, pulled to the side so she can reach for you. You reach for her descending finger, but instead, she pushes you down, into the crevice of her underboob.
“There we go!”
Her satisfied smile is the last thing you see before the full weight of her tit settles on top of you, smothering all but the most necessary air. You feel her humming gently, muffled and resonant, as she continues her leisurely stroll, still completely uncertain what she has planned when you return.