Welcome to my eighth Kinky Scribble, a 2500-word shrunken woman story inspired by @GTSMarsh‘s response to this tweet. Thanks for the writing prompt, Marsh!
Celebrating International Women’s Day by embracing my #ShrunkenWoman kink & creating a profile at https://t.co/u3yZ5SK4tA, a forum for “the judge-free discussion of Giant men & tiny women.”
I’m considering writing some new M/f kinky scribbles for it, too. Any prompt suggestions? pic.twitter.com/cUnGs3MAT0
— Elle Largesse (tired) (@mightytinygiant) March 9, 2021
I also want to thank @pseudo_size for suggesting the title for this story. “Little Clara” was a great snapshot of what came through in the narrative. Thank you for seeing that and reflecting it back to me.
A Kinky Scribble is a flash-fiction writing exercise idea I’ve been developing since January 2020, as a tool to break past my anxieties as a writer. Read my past Kinky Scribbles and search the #KinkyScribble tag itself on Twitter.
The strategy is to produce creative content in a short amount of time, give it minimal edits, and then release it into the wild for others to enjoy. My goals are to practice my fiction-writing skills, to produce more content while still reconnecting with the parts of writing I enjoy most, and to re-calibrate my sense of when something is “done enough” to share.
This strategy won’t be for everyone, but it’s helping me to keep writing in a low-stakes way, and sharing stories with others. Otherwise I tend to hang onto my content for a very long time trying to perfect it, and it never sees the light of day. That’s not helpful to me, to my writing, or to my community. Better to share something imperfect, than nothing at all. I’m trying to lean into the Andy Warhol philosophy:
“Don’t think about making art, just get it done. Let everyone else decide if it’s good or bad, whether they love it or hate it. While they are deciding, make even more art.”
Feel free to join in and create your own kinky scribble! Don’t feel obliged to follow my same format of listing my word count and writing/editing times. It’s really useful to me to re-calibrate my time estimates, and to prove to myself that I can make good content in uncomfortably short time frames.
And speaking of comfort zones, I strongly encourage all #KinkyScribble creators to tag their content so that readers can opt in or out with fully informed consent. I’m not perfect about this, but practice has been helping, and I’m committed to doing better in the future.
Kinky Scribble: Little Clara
(Content includes: M/f, BDSM, 24/7 Owner/property relationship, public play, smothering, objectification, full-body bukkake, entrapment)
2550 words; roughly 50 minutes writing time, plus over an hour for two rounds of edits & additional writing
Clara woke to a gentle swaying and the rush of air nearby, as if she was rocking gently in a hammock in the sun. She pushed the fabric open at the top with drowsy hands, but instead of seeing sky, she blinked at the jawline of her very large, very distant boyfriend, Max.
Well. Not so distant, she thought as she smiled to herself, listening to the wind in his chest expanding and contracting just beyond her fabric hiding place.
“Hey baby,” she called up to him, stretching her arms and legs in opposite directions like a housecat. “I’m thirsty, can you—”
Clara’s pocket hammock smushed into her, or seemed to. Dark warmth and a heavy smothering presence trapped her against Max’s chest, and she fought to stay calm as she reminded herself, it’s just his hand, it’s just Max covering me with his hand, I am safe, I am loved. She repeated it to herself as her heart rate tempered. His hand slipped away and the volume of his voice resounded in her whole body.
“Nothing much, just a good relaxing couple of days with my girlfriend. You?” Clara’s heart sped up again. Max had covered her up because he was in public. She was in his pocket and he was in public. She was nude and in his pocket and… God. He’s at work.
She lay very still and quiet as he cut his conversation short and the swaying resumed. Footstep swaying, she recognized now. She must have really needed that nap. Clara smirked to herself, thinking that perhaps their definition of a fun weekend probably wasn’t anything a co-worker might recognize as normal or especially relaxing. She sighed around the pulse of arousal that echoed through her as she remembered what had kept her awake so long last night. He had tied her someplace so warm and so naughty. Better than any hammock in the sun, and surrounded by his overpowering scent. She’d be daydreaming about it for weeks.
After the shock of nearly exposing herself in public had worn off, she found herself taking a shine to the excitement of her predicament. She snuck a hand between her legs, wishing she could find her way into a different pocket. She looked up with a sudden instinct and saw Max looking down at her incredulously. Beyond him, she could see fluorescent lights, the ceiling. The edge of a plant that trailed down his bookshelf. They were in his office. Did his office have a door?
Something in her threatened a laugh, but instead went very still. He looked away, shifting and handling something that sounded plastic. Her heart did a somersault in her chest. Was he upset? His thumb and forefinger appeared over the edge of the pocket, lowering a bottlecap half full with water that she took carefully. She sipped from it, reassured. He’d heard her request even in the panic of the moment, and remembered. She wanted to thank him, but he hadn’t spoken yet. They were alone, surely, if he was sneaking her water? She tapped his chest and offered the bottlecap, ducking her head in a nod of gratitude. He lifted it up and out of sight, then his eyes found hers again.
All it took was a look, not from Max but from his other persona. Sir.
Clara shuddered and blushed. If she had any doubts, they were gone when he cleared his throat in that particular way he had, a sound she now associated with that delicious life of obedience they had negotiated together. It was their private signal that he wanted to enter scene space.
She quickly re-positioned herself into a kneeling posture, as much as she was able in his pocket. If she hadn’t wanted to join him in a scene, she would have bowed her head slowly and deliberately. But now she smiled back up at him and looked him in the eye.
Sir raised an eyebrow at her. “You’re sure, my toy?” he murmured. They’d enjoyed public scenes before, but never at work.
But if he was game, she was game.
“It’s your job, Sir.” She stifled the urge to clear her own throat. “But I’m sure, if you are.” The pocket and his entire chest shifted as he shrugged, then nodded. The suggestive look in his eye as he smiled down at her made Clara ache. She beamed up at him eagerly and nodded with clear enthusiasm.
It was on. Clara’s whole body gave a thrill, and she decided she would force herself to stay silent. Just because he’d said four quiet words to her didn’t mean he could go around with a moaning woman in his pocket. No matter how much he usually loved to hear her sounds of pleasure, she couldn’t risk outing him or herself. But a quiet toy can still give lots of pleasure, she thought with determination.
He gave her very little time to brace herself. Outside the pocket, his enormous hand grazed along her calf and thigh, up her side in a movement that almost made her giggle with ticklish excitement. His thumb and forefinger appeared in the opening of the pocket again, this time plunging inside, sliding along her breasts and back. She buried her face in his palm as he lifted her.
She had a confused and rushed ride through the light and cool office air, down his pressed button-down shirt, down into his lap. She staggered a little as he left her on the unsteady footing of his leather office chair, between his thighs. She leaned a hand against the texture of his work slacks, a dark fabric that made this angle somehow more intimidating. Sir reached for something on the desk and brought down a square of white fabric that proved to be a simple kleenex. Clara’s knees went weak.
She bit her lip, looking up at him. Sir locked eyes with her as he arranged the tissue on the chair between his legs. To her it looked as if she could step backwards onto a picnic blanket. She didn’t move.
“You can behave yourself in my pocket,” he murmured, his voice no less commanding for being quiet. “Or you can kneel here and drink up as much of me as you can handle, and I promise to tuck you someplace very safe and very warm for the rest of the day.” Now it was his turn to smirk down at her, as he stroked himself through his pants. She watched the bulge there stiffen under his touch, and wished she was touching him there instead of his thigh. “Your choice.”
Clara grinned up at him, her giddy joy ready to burst through her chest. She tilted her head back, held her arms wide, and did her best impression of a trust fall backward onto the tissue and soft leather of Sir’s office chair. She landed dramatically, spread-eagled, then very deliberately, opened her mouth.
Sir made a small noise that, like the rest of this conversation, probably didn’t carry much farther than the ears of his tiny submissive toy. Clara hummed to herself with the satisfaction of making a choice that pleased them both.
Sir stroked himself through the fabric once more, but a sound from across the great expanse of the room seemed to catch him by surprise. Vertigo swirled for Clara as he slid the chair forward under the desk, plunging her into darkness. One hand remained under the desk in his lap.
She only half-listened to him as he answered a question from someone far away. Far more interesting things were happening right here, as his hand reached for her. Clara lifted herself up and reached for his fingers like a lover in the night. When his hand closed firmly around her, she allowed herself only the smallest of sighs.
It was harder to stay quiet as he lifted her and pressed her against the length of his shaft. He didn’t dare use a stroking motion while someone was in the room with him, but he did hold her there tightly, tightly, as she moved and writhed her body against him. His pants seemed to tighten, too. She wrapped her arms and knees around the bulge and massaged his hardening cock through the fabric.
By the time the far away person went too far away to be any of her concern, Clara was clinging to a rock-hard erection that was easily twice her height.
Sir slid his chair back a little, then plucked her from her perch and lay her flat on her back over the tissue. A fingertip pressed her down firmly, a command unto itself. Stay here.
He freed himself. The sound of the zipper was like the sound of her fantasies sliding open. Fabric on skin on fabric. The scent of his precum and sweat rolled towards her like the rising tide of arousal pulsing in her own blood.
Saliva ached in her mouth and though she had already slaked her thirst on his kindness, she wished she could drink down his flavors instead.
He didn’t stroke himself the way he had during their oh-so-relaxing weekend, with big handfuls and a blur of motion. Today’s pleasure came in slow, controlled movements. Fingertip pressing down his shaft, pressing his length down on her. Sir commanded. His toy obeyed.
He moved himself back and forth with twitches of his hips, nudging her entire body with the huge heavy undeniability of his cock, until he had himself dripping his clear delicious precum down onto her tiny breasts and stomach. He slid his cock upwards—small motions to him, but larger than a lover to her—until the round, swollen head of his cock jutted forward into her face. She gave the smallest groan she could manage, then obeyed with her whole heart.
Clara opened her mouth wide again, drinking his warmth into her mouth, letting it spill and slick over her lips, throat, down her tits. She licked all over the head of his cock, over the dome to kiss his opening, down the line to the sensitive area beneath the glans. A swelling drop appeared and she moved quickly to reach it. Gulping him down like the thirsty toy she was.
Clara lifted her arms and legs to caress and massage him, but he used his thumb and middle finger to push her arms back down to her sides. She shivered. She loved it when he moved her body like that. When he held her down. When he owned her.
She felt like his secret in the darkness under his desk, a secret buried under the weight of his cock and the steep consequences of what could happen if they were discovered. It took so much willpower to not moan at the top of her tiny lugs.
Then he began moving faster, and Clara’s heart caught in her throat in a rush of desire. He pressed down hard, harder, hardest, and Clara’s breath left her in a whoosh, left her feeling tingles and sparks until she could find her air again, air she desperately wanted to use to moan, to cry out, YES, PLEASE YES!
His shudder came like a ship breaching a wave, tipping forward, lost in a storm of crushing oceanic weight as all of his climax spurted and slammed into her. She arched her back in ecstatic appreciation as the sticky, milky, cloying hot cum drenched her completely.
Eyes closed, Clara stroked her body under the thick liquid, as if possessive, as if she’d won this experience with her obedient efforts. She licked her lips, her tongue seeming to throb with satisfaction at the tangy salt flavor. One of her nipples stiffened into a tiny sensitive point as she circled it, massaging the cream into her skin. She pinched herself and shivered. She trailed her other hand lower through the luscious jism that pooled over her stomach. She was absolutely coated, and as a dirty little toy, she was allowed to love every moment of it.
Sir’s hand slid under the tissue and under her back and hips before she knew what was happening. He rolled her up in the almost-fabric, a sticky happy mess surrounded by soft whiteness that quickly shifted into darkness. Another thrill went through her at the suddenness and the understanding of what came next for Sir’s little toy.
His fingers pushed her. Pressed her. His scent overwhelmed her, and then the heat of his large muscular thigh. A lifting, shifting, tucking sensation. Arousal glowed like embers in her chest as Sir settled a huge, round weight onto her. Pressure settled around her at all sides, and the tug of elastic. An old, animal part of her brain reacted to the dark warmth, the weight, the trapped, trapped feeling, cannot run—
It’s only Sir, she thought. Sir takes good care of us. Clara would never have been able to explain why, but she loved the precious chance to talk to this side of herself when scenes pushed her to her limits. It was like she could hold a tinier version of herself, the part of her that was unreachable in her normal waking life. Little Clara.
Can’t escape, that part of her said, shivering and impossibly small. What if what if—
Clara filled her lungs deliberately. In through her nose, out slowly slowly through her mouth. Sir is keeping me safe, she said to herself. I am his favorite toy, and I obeyed him well. But even if I had failed at the task, I can trust him.
The response within her didn’t come in words. She felt the smallness unfold a little. As if Little Clara looked out to see what could hurt her, but let the light in, instead.
Clara shifted her shoulders, stroked a fingertip down the still-slick jism on her nipple. She pinched herself just to feel the sharpness. Sir loves what a good, dirty little toy I am. Isn’t that wonderful? Isn’t it amazing? He sees us here like this and still loves us.
The whole conversation with herself took a handful of seconds, but she knew the peace from it would carry her for hours.
Sir’s body moved over and around them and she felt the unmistakable two-tap signal carry through his heavy flesh. When she didn’t respond, the weight of him lifted instantly. Clara filled her lungs and freed up her arms to wipe her face with a fold of tissue. Then she tapped twice against the big, beautiful swell of Sir’s testicles that rose above her in the dim light. He settled slowly down on her once more, then tapped twice again. Clara gave two final taps with enthusiasm, then kissed his skin.
The sound of the zipper made her smile. Fantasies settled with a warm weight over her tiny body.
Clara squirmed in closer, moving and writhing against him as if to fight her way tighter against him in this natural pocket of space, but in truth, she was fighting only to maneuver one hand between her legs. The gauzy tissue had absorbed much of Sir’s semen, but between her thighs, her skin was slick and sensual and oh-so perfect.
I am safe, I am loved, she thought, glowing from the satisfaction of her choices, and began to stroke herself.
That was lovely, Elle. It’s almost enough to wish I were back in the office. Swaddling a little lady under my balls who wants to be there and feels safe would fortify me for the whole day. The non-verbal commands of simply positioning her is one of those delightful ways that size fantasy expresses the relationships we crave. The reader is well-oriented with Clara in her tight spaces, and we feel the full weight of her actions. These are great characters, efficiently introduced. What a smutty toy.