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Kinky Scribbles: Body Pillow

Today’s kinky scribble is brought to you by my cold, frustrated sizefeels this morning. Thanks, size dysmorphia.

And far more sincere thanks to my friend Dick, the Micro Giant, who let me roleplay this little comfort scene off and on today to work through these feelings.

Ten minutes. Just a scribble. Let go of whatever you think this needs to be, Elle. Just write.

(Ten minutes turned into an hour and a half of writing, with another half hour of edits. I never know if I should feel pleased at my accomplishment when this happens, or annoyed with my inability to keep my projects small. I do feel really good about this one, though.)


Kinky Scribbles: Body Pillow

(M/f, male Giant, female tiny, shrinking, cuddles, comfort)
1020 words, est. 1.5 hours of writing, 0.5 hours of editing

When I become aware of my body first thing in the morning, I’m not sure which hits me first, the cold or the smallness.

I’m used to sizeshifting by now. The unpredictability, the frustration, the embarrassment. But with winter fast approaching, this is the first time I’ve really been hit by how hard it is to stay warm at a smaller size. I twist and stretch my shivery muscles in the wrinkle of my sheets where I find myself. When I heave myself to my feet and scale the hill-sized pillow where my head rested last night, I find that it’s somehow still warm from my skin.

I’m relieved to find that you haven’t made your way back to your side of the apartment yet. We don’t have very good boundaries as roommates, and that’s honestly how I like it. Given that we can’t really afford to run the A/C or heater in extreme temperatures–and how much I enjoy admiring your sexy collection of boxers–and how much you enjoy my unpredictable sizes–it’s probably for the best. I shiver and stomp forward to your enormous face, easily six times my own height. I kick your nose.

I’m not surprised when I have to dodge your sleepy hand as you attempt to swat me away. I kick you again with more urgency.

“Morning,” I say when your squinting eyes manage to focus on my diminutive body. “I’m tiny, and tired, and cold. I wanna snuggle you in your boxers, you cool with that?”

You groan, rubbing your face. But soon you’re smiling down at me. “I’d like that. How long you staying?”

“Not long enough to break my lease,” I say. “But I could honestly stay there all fucking day. I’m so damn cold, and I haven’t called in sick in ages.”

You laugh, scratching yourself through your boxers and rolling onto your back. “I s’pose you’re gonna want me to text your boss like last time?”

“I’d appreciate it,” I said, running my hands up and down my arms and wishing I were already under the covers and in your warmest places. “Fuck, it’s cold in here. How are you sleeping without the covers on?” I grumble under my breath about human furnaces and unfairness.

You don’t respond, and it’s my turn to squint at you. “Hey, you awake? You gonna be lucid enough to let me out if I signal?”

“Mmm hmm,” you say reluctantly, pushing yourself up in bed a little. I hold out my arms to keep myself steady during this earthquake. It’s a skill I’ve resigned myself to practicing regularly, a shrunken sailor finding my sea-legs on short notice. You reach over me like some sleepy leviathan and retrieve my phone. “I’ll stay awake. I gotchu.”

“I don’t even know if I care at this point,” I say, “but I do trust you. Thanks!” I sprint through the chilly air on the springy mattress along the length of your body. When I reach your boxers, I lift the elastic band with considerable effort and burrow inside without hesitation.

You jump slightly at my touch, complaining distantly that I’m a “fucking ice cube” but I push onward. I give out one long groan of relief at the deliciously heavy warmth radiating from your skin. I crawl along your hip bone, kissing you the way an explorer kisses the sand after months at sea.

I wade into the thick tangle of your curly pubic hair and breathe deeply to savor your scent. Even though I know I’ll be inhaling you for hours–if I’m lucky–for now I can’t get enough of your signature aromas of musk, sweat, soap, cheap laundry detergent, and something undeniably you. Most roommates list “good hygiene” in their must-haves, but for me it’s become a genuine deal-breaker. I sigh with gratitude at having found a decently hygienic human being to trust with my strange sizeshifting life. “Who needs personal space?” I mutter.

I press onward, my goal emerging before me in the form of your ruddy foreskin curving downward into the darkness. Though I’m already warm enough, I can’t help but want to get warmer. I want closeness. I want to bury myself in your scent and skin and be touched and held helpless in place all damn day.

Your immense body shifts as I stretch out a tiny hand and stroke your soft, flaccid cock. I smile.

It’s no easy task to wedge my body under the weight of you, but I manage. Your balls feel swollen beneath me as I push myself in that magic space at the base of your cock and the proud rise of your testes.

I’m reminded of the time we got high together and I spent a whole evening lounging in your lap and fixating on the way your scrotum moves, stretches, tightens, protects, loosens, apparently without you even registering the changes. But this morning I’m not watching or playing with your balls. I’m using them as a massive bean-bag of warmth at my back, so I can face your cock instead.

Your warmth has given my body the sense of safety it needed to let me grow ever so slightly, and I estimate that I’m perhaps three inches tall at this point. I’m the perfect size to spread my thighs and arms and hug your hugeness. Your body may not be a wonderland, but your cock is my playful, prayer-answering body pillow.

I nuzzle my face into your velvety soft foreskin and give you a squeeze. I blush at the feeling of heat rushing into your member. Semi-erect, your penis accumulates weight like a life-raft taking on water and I cling to you like a mermaid ready to drown my worries in your warmth. The flooding of blood within you has the best kind of consequences for me right now.

I didn’t want to move, anyway. I don’t want to think. I just want to exist here in your private place, under you, above you, feeling the comfort and pulse of your body. I lean into the root of you, moaning as you increase and shift sizes in a way that I cannot.

Published inEroticaKinky ScribblesShort FictionWriting

One Comment

  1. Olo Olo

    Gotta say, Elle, your giant cock worship is some of the best I’ve ever read. Your sensations and emotions nestle together so cozily.

    I’m pretty sure the weighted blanket industry could be solely supported by the size community.

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