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Mutiny of a Mistress

Hello, my lovely readers! I am back from a long and much-needed hiatus with a new story. Perfect for fans of Jane Austen and Bridgerton, this 4000-word erotica is my kinky idea of what a lady in the Regency Era might do with shrinking powers, if she were horny and fed up with the patriarchy. (Honestly, mood.)

Skip to the story content section if you want to jump right in. Mind the content tags!

This is the second in a series of historical erotica set in different time periods. The first was Anne and the King’s Miniaturist, a size kink scene between a Duchess and an artist with a secret, set quite literally against one of the most notorious paintings of King Henry VIII’s reign. I have plans for at least two more stories, so stay tuned.

And because I can’t help myself—dear reader, you know how I get off to essays about kinkhere’s some background on why this story took me two years to publish, and thoughts about embracing the transgressive and monstrous fantasies of femmes.


When Darkness Lights Your Fire

I wrote this 4000-word story in December of 2022 after reading (and then immediately re-reading) the incredibly sexy queer historical romance A Lady for a Duke by Alexis Hall. I’d also been watching Bridgerton, featuring more than one plot about women scheming their way through the Regency Era social ladder. I found myself fantasizing about a woman using size kink magic in a role reversal, a moment of dominance in which she would fight for a better situation in a patriarchal world. My story felt dark and sexy and it turned me on, so I had no trouble putting words on the page.

Then, for various (internalized kink-shaming) reasons, I decided I should try to challenge myself to write a gentle version to release alongside it. After all, the book that put me in this mindset was full of sweet, earnest lovemaking. Surely I could do justice to a version of this story that followed a similar tone? I have so many friends who prefer gentle content, it seemed like a lovely option to offer.

I put in a couple months of work trying to figure out how to rework the characters’ motivations and get to some kind of angle that felt sexy. After all, I’m not heartless. I have two loving partners and enjoy sex with feelings all the time. I read plenty of romance novels—well, queer ones, anyway. So, why did I stall out 2000 words into the new draft? Why was I unable to make progress on it for an entire year?

I thought I could get myself interested again by watching all six hours of the 1995 BBC Pride & Prejudice with some lovely size writer friends on a Discord server. We even followed it up with the 2005 version that gave my younger self such a bisexual crisis with that sexy rain-drenched scene. I enjoyed the films and the company and the nerdy literary analysis. But in the back of my mind I kept asking myself why immersing myself in Regency Era romance for eight hours didn’t do the trick. I couldn’t even bring myself to open the document, let alone write a satisfactory gentle sexy scene. Why?

I have some theories. My therapist probably does, too.

And if you’re a fan of my work, you may have read my previous essays on the way nonconsensual fantasies turn me on in fantasy and horrify me in real life, and all the energy I have put into navigating that as consensually as possible. So, yeah. I have theories of why it was hard for me to wave the magic writing wand and produce a softer, safer, and more socially acceptable version of this story.

But honestly? It doesn’t really matter why the gentle fantasy isn’t exciting me. It’s not “lighting my fire,” as my partner pseudo put it so poetically.

The dark version excited me. A lot. It felt really fucking good to write it. It feels good to re-read it.

And after co-facilitating the Size Ladies and WLW socials at the wonderful SizeCon Micro last weekend, I had more than one excellent conversation with other women in this community who have similar struggles. How hard it can be to embrace our fantasies as they are, when we’re aware how much they deviate from socially acceptable scripts of womanhood. How frustrating it is that many men in the community want us to deliver a very specific version of a giantess “empowerment” fantasy on a silver platter that prioritizes their gaze and consumption. How it’s hard, sometimes, to even admit what really turns us on. Even to ourselves. How lonely that can get.

Many of us talked about how much it meant to us to discover other femmes making art and writing stories in the size kink world. Especially the creations that are unabashedly true to our own turn-ons, not just what we think we should want to write or draw.

It’s okay that I’m struggling with this. I’m writing about it here in this introduction for any other femme writer or artist out there who’s not sure if it’s okay to have these fantasies, if it’s okay to struggle with your own identity because of it. Well, it is okay. It’s okay to want something dark in your fantasy that turns you on, lights your goddamned fire. It’s okay to want something else entirely in real life. It’s okay to pleasure yourself to something dark and then cuddle lovingly with your partner.

It’s okay that I’m afraid you’ll think I’m a monster because I get off to something monstrous.

It reminds me of a scene in Ocean Vuong’s devastatingly good book On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous. (I do recommend this story, especially as an audiobook, but if you pick it up, mind the extensive content tags.)

“‘You’re not a monster,’ I said. But I lied. What I really wanted to say was that a monster is not such a terrible thing to be. From the Latin root monstrum, a divine messenger of catastrophe, then adapted by the Old French to mean an animal of myriad origins: centaur, griffin, satyr. To be a monster is to be a hybrid signal, a lighthouse: both shelter and warning at once.”

It reminds me of what my therapist taught me about anger, when I discovered how thoroughly angry I was all the time, and how I had been raised to stifle, numb, and ignore that emotion to appear more ladylike. “Anger is often a protection or a protest. Sometimes both. Who or what is your anger protecting? Who or what are you protesting?” I think of that often when I feel overwhelmed by fury and size and feel like a Giantess because of it. Shelter and warning at once.

A page later, Vuong writes, “Possessing a heartbeat is never as simple as the heart’s task of saying yes yes yes to the body.”

What else is a fantasy, but the mind’s way of saying yes to the pleasure of our bodies? Why is that so hard to admit to ourselves and to the world? How many fantasies become buried under the most ladylike word I know—“should”?

It’s never quite as simple to say yes to our bodies, and yes to our hearts at the same time. To trust that there will still be a place for us in our social circles if we are open about the things that turn us on. Sometimes safety comes before coming out. That’s just as true with “small” secrets like specific turn-ons as it is with sharing marginalized identities.

In these times especially, it feels vitally important to look our own darknesses in the eye, to own that we can be many things all at once. To really, truly own it. To understand that any one of us can be both shelter and warning, loving and monstrous, light and dark and all the points in-between.


Disclaimer & resources

Beyond the realm of fantasy, I do not condone sex acts without consent. Erotic fantasy play between two individuals in reality in person and online should always include negotiation, fully informed consent, and protections such as content tags, safewords, aftercare, and emergency planning.

If you or anyone you know has experienced sexual harassment, trauma, abuse, or assault, I strongly suggest seeking advice and counseling from trained professionals. These are usually free and confidential. Some organizations that offer free resources are: RAINN (Rape, Abuse, and Incest National Network) hotline at 800-656-HOPE; National Sexual Violence Resource Center to search for local help; Trans Lifeline Crisis Hotline by and for the transgender community at 877-565-8860; National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1−800−799−7233 or TTY 1−800−787−3224.



The photo I used in the banner is from Portrait of Madame Aymon, La belle Zélie by Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres, 1806.


Support the author

Money is tight right now. I have multiple works of fiction in progress, ranging from wholesome to kinky as fuck. I’d like to continue releasing them here for free.

If you enjoy this story and want to see/hear more like it, the best way to do that is to support me financially. The few donations I get usually go right into commissioning art and paying beta readers. (The second best way is to boost the signal on my stories and encourage your friends to support me, too.) Thanks, y’all!


Story synopsis

Lillete has taken a lord for a lover, but he won’t consider marrying her and she’s fed up with the limits of her social station. In this darkly kinky role reversal and revenge story, watch her plan unfold to claim the life she always wanted. A story of shrinking and domination, set in Regency Era England.


Story content

Tagging is the only way I know for people online to be able to opt in or out of a sexual experience with fully informed consent. I welcome help in tagging—please let me know when I have missed anything important.

Tags for this story include:

Content tags: F/m, shrinking to doll-sized, noncon, coercion, magic potion, teasing, domination, classism, misogyny, role reversal, revenge, punishment, mild fearplay, humiliation, tickling, masturbation, exhibitionism, cunnilingus, fellatio, insertion, entrapment, fucking the patriarchy


Read the story

TEXT VERSION: Read the text version of the story behind the cut.

AUDIO VERSION: I might record audio for this story. If I get enough requests, I will move it up on my priority list.


Mutiny of a Mistress

4018 words

By Elle Largesse

Copyright 2024, all rights reserved.



It is an unacknowledged truth that a mistress in possession of magical powers, must be in want of a husband she can control.

But not, dear reader, for long.

Miss Lilette Wilson had risen far from her station in life, farther than someone of her means might reasonably expect. She had taken a lord for her lover and he kept her in style, gowns and pearls and the finest embroidered gloves money could buy. Her modest household at the edge of St. James’s was a far cry from her humble childhood in Covent Garden, she thought. And yet.

“I want more,” she said, tilting the teapot with calculated grace.

Her lover barely noticed her effort, and lifted his cup to his lips with an absent-minded frown. Lord Benedict Reynolds was focused on a letter from one of his business interests. She wondered what hare-brained gamble he had invested his family’s fortune in this time. It made her sigh into her un-sipped tea, knowing it was only a matter of time before he began using her as a sounding board for troubles he had brought on himself and which he would not deign to fully explain. She had all but given up offering advice. He thought her too female to possibly have any skill in the cunning and intrigue required for such enterprises.

She watched his mouth as he drank, remembering kisses, and pulled her own lips into a dark smile.

“Terribly sorry, my Lil,” he said. “What was that? More of what, exactly?” He probably thought she had requested more card parties or silk slippers. His hand went to the cravat at his throat, adjusting it slightly as if it no longer fit properly.

“More,” she said simply. “More security. More significance. More of this life we share. Though I believe the best way to achieve this is through a specific application of a lessening effect.”

“Lilette?” He raised an eyebrow at this last incomprehensible sentence, then focused on what he did understand. “I am sorry, dear heart, but you know I give you all I can. We are practically at the limits of what polite society will tolerate as it is.” He frowned at her in that particular brand of aristocratic confusion that, to Lilette, implied ‘yes, of course the world is unfair, but what has that to do with me?’

She could feel an awareness of his body spreading through her own, brought on by the special herb brewed into the tea that had primed him for her magic. It had taken only one sip; an excellent sign that his devotion to her was already deeply entrenched.

She tightened her hold on the magic, and on him. Her lover’s coat, vest, and trousers visibly loosened before her eyes. Her smile broadened and she leaned closer. “I think soon you will learn to be far more concerned with what your mistress will tolerate, as polite society grows quite out of reach for you.”

He looked unsettled but as yet unaware. He looked up at her—the angle shifting more by the moment—as his frown deepened. “The family won’t allow me to marry for anything other than status.”

Lilette rose to her feet slowly. She trailed a gloved hand over the tablecloth and stepped closer. Too close. Though not nearly as close as they had been last night. She remembered the feel of his hands on her body and ached to hold him again. But differently, this time. It would be so very different.

“Ben,” she said, shortening his Christian name in an overly familiar way. He could call her Lil, of course, but she was supposed to call him Benedict or “my lord,” or, in certain company, by the distant “Lord Reynolds.” She enjoyed the look on his face at learning his new name. “Oh, Ben. What I allow you to do has now become your primary concern.” As she expected, he tried to rise to his feet. She placed a hand on his shoulder and prevented the movement with ease.

She had not expected how much passion would ignite in her at the feel of him… dwindling.

His expression of confusion deepened into something like shock or fear. This, too, kindled a feeling in her. Desire for more.

She removed her gloves with slow confidence as he watched her. Then she slipped her hand into the space where his over-large coat gaped away from his body. Her fingers were still warm from the tea and in the chill of the room, his body met hers with his typical furnace of heat. She wanted to feel all of his heat all at once. Alive and aching against her, skin to skin.

“What you allow?” He trembled smaller. His commanding voice was losing volume like a loss of significance.

She reached now with both hands to press down on his shoulders. Not because this magical process required it, but because the new passion rising within her demanded she experience the shift in power.

“What I allow,” she confirmed.

The top of Ben’s head was now level with her low square neckline. He stared up at her decolletage with a kind of eager dismay, like a hungry man looks at a meal that he doubts he can afford any longer. His cravat unraveled around his throat as his tailored coat fell away entirely. The fine cotton shirt beneath slipped off his shoulder in a decidedly unmasculine way, as if he were the ‘lady of the night’ that the gossips sometimes called her in their cruel whispers. If only they knew.

Miss Lilette Wilson let loose a kind of groaning moan, the least refined sound she had ever made in polite company. Her hands tightened on him, pulling him closer as she bent at the waist.

“What mad dream is this?” he said wonderingly.

“My dream. And now yours, too. I will allow you to touch me.”

She found his small hand, easily half the size of her own, and guided it to the slope of her bosom. He leaned in closer. “Such enormity,” she heard him whisper, before he buried his face in her skin.

Foolish man. Caught in his lust when he should worry about the strange peril he faced. But Lilette was lost in her own lust, too. She pulled him against her, half-sized and still dwindling right into her arms. Soon the cotton shirt was all that remained on him, like a nightshirt or a lady’s chemise. She drank in the shock on his face as his trousers rumpled off his legs to fall on the chair. His vulnerability made her grin and groan again.

She set him down and he sank into a kneeling position before her, as if he were preparing to swear fealty in some archaic fashion. It was almost worshipful, and she delighted in it. She leaned low over him and drew her hands up and down his back. Then she pushed one hand under the hem of his shirt to cup his bare buttocks with a kind of possessiveness she had never allowed herself to express. The hardness of his bewildered desire became visible under the enormous shirt. And still he dwindled.

“How are you—” He gasped as she eased one hand to the front of his body. Moving to cup his erection in the hidden warmth between them. “How are you allowing this?”

“Mmm, very good. You’re proving a far faster study than I expected. I am allowing this. Your life, little lordling, is now all about what I want, what I allow, and what allowances I give you”—she smirked over this upended situation, how she had chafed at his pitiable allowance for her!—”will all be in direct correlation to how well you obey me. Serve my wishes, learn to please me properly as the kept man you are, and your mistress will allow you to take your own size again. Sometimes.”

He had decreased in both presence and consequence now, to be barely a third of her own size. His helplessness was like a rich liquor that she couldn’t stop herself from savoring. But still, he pushed himself back to look up at her. His face was a rush of expressions she could not parse.

“Madam,” he said coldly, coming to his feet in the wrinkled mess of his own discarded clothes, “if you believe you can divest me from my own existence as a man and a citizen of the crown, you are sorely mistaken!” Lilette blinked down at him with amusement. He now stood naked and proudly arrogant on the chair, swaying ever so slightly on the cushion like some sea captain faced with a mutiny.

“Am I, now?” She bent lower to emphasize both her powerful size and her womanly assets. She reached a finger out and tapped him twice on top of the head. “And yet, Ben, still you dwindle under my power.”

He grit his teeth, glaring up at her, until she trailed her finger lightly across the top of his foot. He was horribly ticklish there, she knew from experience, and she laughed as he struggled to hold his composure. “We should have you pose for a painting in this style. You nude and standing so very proud on this chair. Something to shock your ancestors in that dreadfully boring gallery you keep at home, don’t you think?”

He turned rather red in the face, until she took pity on him and slid her finger higher. His erection had softened somewhat, but rose again at the lightest of her touches. She gently took him between her thumb and forefinger as his eyes widened. She began to slide back and forth, the smallest of up-down motions, and grinned at how much easier this was than the usual exertions.

He gaped up at her, his head dipping a little as if he were overwhelmed. She enjoyed that. She enjoyed being the kind of woman that could overwhelm a man.

She stopped when his knees began to buckle. It was so easy to push him against the back of the chair, as easy as moving a doll. She took fistfuls of her skirts in her hands and lifted the hem of her dress far higher than she ever had outside the bedroom. Then she did another scandalous thing, by sitting backwards on the chair the way a low-class man might at a card game. One leg balanced to either side, and as her thighs spread open, her little lordling was trapped between them. She doubted the high and mighty gentlemen sat this way at Waiters, his favorite gambling club. It made it all the more satisfying.

She arranged her skirts to offer the best light, that he might better admire her most secret place. He had touched her here often enough, not with any particular skill but with some enthusiasm at least. Skill could be taught, though, if the student was willing.

“Your training begins now, my little kept man. Lesson one: how to please a woman.”

She caressed her folds in front of him, guiding her fingers up and around the little pearl of her pleasure. “Are you paying attention? Because there will be an examination to prove your studiousness, Ben.” She began to stroke herself, using far more energy and power than she had applied to his tiny member.

It helped that he was still losing his height in front of her. Less than the length of her forearm, now. It gave her a thrill unlike any other.

She felt so drunk on power that when the quiet knock at the door came, she did not even try to hide.

Her sweet-faced maid Sarah entered with a tray, frowned ever so slightly, and then looked at them both in absolute shock as the door swung closed behind her.

“Ma’am…” Her eyes took in the compromising position first, and then the doll-sized figure on the chair. “My lord?” She set the tray down on the table as if she was sleepwalking through her duties, and against all propriety, she sat down heavily in what had been Lilette’s chair.

“Sarah,” Lilette chided her kindly. “You forget yourself.” The maid leapt to her feet in horror.

“So sorry, ma’am,” she said. Her eyes flicked between the wall and the tiny man who paid her pitiful salary.

“Sarah!” he called out imperiously, coming to his feet. “You will escort Miss Willson to the door!”

Lilette laughed at the ridiculousness of the social script he clung to. With the hand that had been stroking her wet quim, she reached for him and pulled him down against her. On his knees. With his body and face buried against her body. He struggled, but it was laughably easy to hold him there. The movements of his arms and hands felt surreal and sensual at the same time.

With her other hand, Lilette searched the lord’s trousers for the pocket of coin he typically carried. She opened it easily and quickly counted out a small fortune for a maid. She set the coin on the edge of the table before Sarah.

“For your silence, and your loyalty. Help me, and I shall be the one to decide your salary and duties henceforth.”

A look of hope crossed the maid’s face. “Of course, ma’am.” They shared a smile, then, completely incongruous for their different stations in life. It gave Lilette a strange sense of vertigo. It was as if her own past self were looking in on her now, the Lilette raised in a brothel, who would have wept with joy at a fraction of the sum she had casually tossed on the table. Now here she was, her hair pinned up with pearls, demanding the life she wanted, winning control of a haughty lord and his family estate, all of it literally cupped in the palm of her hand. Hers for the taking.

Sarah’s eyes glanced down to the captive lord and bizarre sexual congress still taking place, then sought the safety of the ceiling. Her expression was curious, intrigued in spite of the circumstances. Lilette smiled inwardly, noting the woman’s reaction and considering some possibilities for future disciplinary measures against the lord’s insubordination. Sarah cleared her throat and bravely asked, “I mean no disrespect, ma’am. But he’ll be… all right?”

“Your considerate nature does you credit,” Lilette said. “I’m not doing to him anything that he hasn’t done to me, before. I’ll keep him in good health, I promise. And bring him back to himself on occasion, so none may worry. But that shall be a reward for good behavior, you understand. I can punish bad behavior just as easily.”

The implication was clear. Sarah took the coin into her dress pocket and curtseyed deeply. “I understand, ma’am.”

“Clear away the tea. Do not drink the leftovers. Then prepare a small basin of warm water, soap, and a soft cloth, and do not bring it until I ring for you.”

“As you wish.” Sarah gathered the nearly full teapot and the teacups, then bowed her head repeatedly on her way out the room. The door closed with a click.

“How dare you—”

He had pushed himself away from her again, just enough to raise his voice in anger. She laughed at him, at the inches he’d lost while she was barely paying any attention to him. Then she dragged him up and down against her folds, up into the dark curls of her venus mons, back down again. His little erection was a tiny hard nub, betraying his body’s appreciation for hers.

“How dare you,” she said. Stroking. Sighing. “Your mistress was teaching you a lesson, and you stopped paying attention.”

“What—what lesson—you harlot!”

She stopped.

She raised him to eye level. Sticky with the lubrication of her body, he panted in her hand, gripping tightly to her thumb and middle finger. She could smell her own scent on him. It made her smile again.

He did not seem to like her smile, and leaned back ever so slightly.

“You will not refer to me by that word ever again.”

He raised his chin defiantly, as if he could look down his nose at her even at half a foot tall.

She brought him closer. Slowly, she raised him until his hips trembled just beyond her mouth. She licked her lips and drew him inside.

It was the most ridiculous fellatio she had ever performed, but in a way, her favorite. All too often this act contrived to make the lady subservient. She often preferred positions which granted her a higher vantage and the sensation of power over the man in her mouth.

She had never held a man quite so thoroughly helpless. Lord Benedict Reynolds whimpered. She moaned maliciously above him, and the vibration of just her voice set his entire body writhing against her. He twitched with little thrusts of desperation. His face rested against her cheekbone and she could feel him panting.

She timed it well, pulling back at a good moment. His tiny voice was close enough to her ear that she heard him beg, almost involuntarily. “Please…”

“Please, what?” She pulled back far enough to watch him gasping, his tiny cock a deep dark red so hard it almost looked painful.

“Please… mistress?”

“Why was that a question, Ben? Do you doubt yourself? Do you doubt that I am mistress of you and your entire body?” She lowered him to the chair she still straddled. She lay him over the fabric of his soft cotton shirt, nearly touching her. Then she raised herself above him and used the shirt like a rug to tug him into position. He gaped up at her as if trying to take in the majesty of an entire mountain.


“Better. But still not the answer I was seeking. You haven’t even asked the right question yet.” She lowered herself ever so slightly. The cool air of the room on her wet cunt made her ache to press him against her skin once more, but she held herself aloof.

She could see his mind working, all his tiny expressions still so easy for her to read even at this extreme.

To hold the tension of the moment, she began stroking herself again. Having him below her like this, captive to her whims as she had been to his for so long… she was so wet she began dripping down the inside of her thigh. A drop landed on his leg.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he said. “Mistress.”

“Mrs. Benedict Reynolds,” she whispered. He looked dizzy.

She lowered herself on top of him. The heat of his body was sensationally good, pulling a moan from deep in her throat. She stroked her folds up and down his tiny figure, leaving him pinned to the chair but with just enough of him showing to grant him breath. And a proper view of her, of course.

He groaned, his resolute expression finally beginning to give way. “Take it!” he shouted. “Take it! I never wanted to be a first son. If you think you can do so much better at running my damnable life, then you may as well!”

She felt the smallest nudge along the inside of her thigh, presumably the anger of his fist. How she once would have cowered before a man’s fist. Now his anger was something she could subsume entirely with her own body. With her patient plans. With her power.

“Of course I’m taking it, Ben,” she said, stroking against him. All but grinding him against the soft cushion. “Are you really going to keep your mistress waiting?”

He groaned louder, cursing.

“Say it.”


“Say. It.” She lifted slightly and was rewarded with the tiny gratifying thrust of his body as he tried to reach her again. As if he could somehow hope to penetrate her that way.

In the end, he relented with the tiniest of desperate sighs. “Will you marry me?”

She groaned with deep pleasure and lowered herself onto him, stroking his body as she fingered her pearl. “Yes, yes, yes!” She moaned the words, uncaring if the whole household staff heard them.

“Promise you will honor me as wife and true mistress of you and your fortune. You will be mine in more ways than I was ever yours. Promise me!”

“I promise,” he panted. He disappeared beneath her for a moment as she stroked hard over him.

“Say my name, Ben. Are you mine?” She gripped the chair hard and it creaked beneath her exertions.

His gasping moans beneath her were unspeakably arousing, but nothing could prepare her for the rush of elation when he spoke next. When he obeyed her and surrendered at last.

“Mrs. Reynolds. I am yours.”

She lifted his entire body with urgent fingers. Guiding his feet and legs within, she pushed him inside. Consummating the promise of their union. “Again!”

“I am yours,” he repeated, moaning as he sank deeper inside her body. She held him, tightening herself with ecstasies as he moved within. She pressed fingers to both his shoulders in an echo of the way she had held him in his chair an eternity ago.

Past caring, she lifted herself to lay across the empty table, across his business correspondence—now hers—and fucked herself hard with her new fiancé, the first man to obey her.

She shuddered with climax, her heart pounding and her body alive with hope.

Hope, and power.

Lilette took immense pleasure in holding him tight with her body as she stood up breathlessly, arranged her skirts to a semblance of propriety, and rang the bell.

Lilette’s heart pounded with satisfaction as she felt Ben’s breath against the inside of her thigh. He did not struggle overmuch, but remained suspended up-side-down within her. It aroused her so much she was ready again already, but focused on the task at hand.

Sarah appeared promptly with a tray of all she had requested, blinking around in confusion and something like excitement on her pretty features.

“Ma’am?” she said uncertainly. She took a step forward very tentatively, as if she expected she might be next. As if she welcomed it. Lilette raised an eyebrow and felt a warm glow of success. She smiled at her, but this time it was the sort of smile a lady of the house would grant to a servant who had pleased her.

“Very good, Sarah. I knew I could trust your discretion.” She gestured with controlled grace to the chair where Ben had shrunk out of his clothes and his entire livelihood. “You will remove these items of clothing and have them cleaned and put away for use on a later date. My lord will be… indisposed for the foreseeable future.”

“As you wish, ma’am.” She gathered up the coat, shirt, vest, and trousers, then paused. She removed the bag of coin and set it before Lilette, whose whole body clenched with reaction at her oversight. She couldn’t forget things like that anymore.

Distantly, she felt him writhe within her.

Lilette produced one more coin and set it on Sarah’s tray. “You have done well today.” The maid bobbed a happy curtsey as she retrieved the lord’s shoes and made her way to the door. She looked as if this was her favorite day of the year.

“Oh, and one more thing,” Lilette said, her own spirits lifting. “Henceforth, you are to call me my lady, and Mrs. Benedict Reynolds.”

“As you wish, my lady.”

When she was alone once more, Lilette took her seat in the chair Ben had vacated. She sank down gracefully, carefully, and pulled the correspondence to her. She began to read.

She couldn’t help herself, of course. As she scanned the page, Mrs. Benedict Reynolds began to rock her hips forward and back. Like rolling waves.

Savoring the echo of response held captive within. Contemplating all that was finally hers.

Joy cascaded through her like triumph, leaving her trembling. She read on, scarcely seeing the words. “More,” she whispered, and began again.




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    • mightytinygiant mightytinygiant

      Thank you for reading, Olo. And oh my stars, that would be a dream come true. If anyone wants to knock on my door for the movie rights, by all means send them in. I am quite at my leisure.

  1. Just reread this story and loved it all over.

    You did a fantastic job of collapsing all the elements of the story into a tidy one scene tale. There’s Lilette’s backstory, a shrinking mechanism, an imbalanced relationship in which the tensions come to the surface, a visitation from a servant and a good deal of hot F/m sex and it’s all accounted for in little over 4000 words. This story is short, but it never feels thin. Pardon, but after reading this, I had to laugh at myself for having just written a 43,000 word behemoth. No regrets, but boy, I really admire when a writer can work depth into short form narrative.

    You described this as a dark size fantasy, and to be sure, it is. Speaking for myself, this was exactly as dark as I wanted it to be. I loved that Lilette gets swept up in her own passion in the process of shrinking Ben. She isn’t a dispassionate dommy mommy who’s just here to put little Ben in his place (heh.). The story is the realization of her fantasy, and he’s just along for the ride. I adore femdom stories, but a lot of them forget to give the femdom much internal life. She’s there for the male sub’s gratification and her own desires are cryptic or unspoken. Not the case at all here.

    Speaking of, one of my absolute favorite femdom tropes is when the male sub becomes a fucktoy—literally or figuratively. Here, the theme was made hilariously literal and it made for a really satisfying ending. Love that final sentence, too.

    It’s honestly cathartic when Ben surrenders everything to Lilette. His title and familial responsibilities obviously don’t give him satisfaction and he’s evidently not even that good at managing his estate. His only reason to resist giving it all away is, I guess, pride and sense of authority and entitement. I bet it really is something of a relief to let all that go.

    Last thing I want to mention is, it made me a bit sad to read about how much you tried to *not* tell this version of the story. I understand your reasons and I understand trying to challenge oneself to come up with a more egalitarian sexual fantasy. Nevertheless, I’m glad you ultimately changed your mind and went back to your original draft. I personally want *more* stories like this, that focus on a female protagonist desiring both power and sexual gratification. Not that I’m petitioning you to write more stories like this—you do what you want!—but if there’s pressure on people not to write this kind of story, I find that unfortunate, both as a reader and as a writer.

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