Kinky Scribbles: Nude on a Cloth Napkin

Kinky Scribbles installment five! This writing exercise has been so immensely helpful to me as a tool to break past my anxieties as a writer.

I make notes about how long it took me to write and edit because I’m trying to recalibrate my sense of when something is “done enough” to share.

In the past I would write a thing and leave it in my files to collect dust because I was convinced it needed some unknowable quantity of edits, a goal with constantly shifting measures of success. When I limit myself to a scribble, the path becomes so much clearer. It’s been really good practice for me, so I’m going to keep it up for the foreseeable future.

Nude on a Cloth Napkin

(F/m, Giantess, male tiny, shrinking, mouthplay, food play, adultery, noncon, nudity, humiliation, threat)

Note: the word napkin is US usage, not UK where it apparently means a diaper for a baby. Here it’s the piece of cloth you use to clean up during a meal.

465 words, 45 mins writing, 20 mins editing

She can’t afford any of this, but she spends it anyway.

Wagyu bavette steak, $27

Wine, Zorzal Malbec, $10

Bowl of marinated Spanish olives, $7

Her favorite part of the meal isn’t the savory and expensive medium rare steak or the sips of wine by candlelight, but the feel of pushing the olives into that liminal space where lips become mouth. Warm, sloping, wet. Slipping within. Intimate. 

When the artfully chipped stoneware arrives with her bowlful of olives garnished with fresh rosemary, mint, and a sprig of eager thyme, she handles them tentatively, as if they’re an embarrassment. She slips an olive into her mouth, nibbles it tidily until the pit is smooth, then turns her head down and away to catch it with two hesitating fingertips. Her small stack of pits grows in a plain white ceramic dish. 

Limiting herself to only a handful of glances, she becomes hyper-aware of the proximity of the people at the next table. A 40-something man with a ring on his left hand leans in close to spear a morsel from the plate of a 20-something woman with bare yet manicured fingers. They flirt quietly. 

She could reach out her arm and touch either of them, but politely hides herself in her wine glass and pretends that she can’t hear every word they share.

The steak melts under her knife. The wine works its way into her system. Soon the olives come one after another between her slick fingers, slow and sensual like a moan in reverse.

The other woman leaves the table for a moment and she imagines shrinking the man down onto the table, out of his clothes and right into the open circle of that meaningless ring.

She might pluck him up with shiny, oily fingers, and push his helpless, nude body into the darkness of her mouth. Gentle. Probing. Sucking the salt from his skin. Spinning his little body in confusion so she can savor his fear and share the pleasure of the sheer physicality of this gesture. 

She imagines pulling his little body from her mouth like an olive pit, stripped of all pretense and arrogance. Setting him back on the nearby table with the confused younger woman who’s frowning at the empty pile of clothes.

Only a minute would have passed, but his whole existence would be scoured clean with her saliva. With her insistence. As the other woman watched in confusion, she would place the tiny shocked man into the open circle of his ring, right there on the white linen. Glistening.

“A small present for you,” she imagines herself saying to the equally shocked woman. Smiling with sensual generosity. “I’ll get your bill.”

Then standing, looming close. She’d lick a fingertip, then let her hand fall to the tabletop and trail behind her. Threatening? Lingering?

Leaving satiated. Just enough salt to balance the acidity of his arrogance. 

Maybe one more olive.