hi all, this is primarily a macro/micro kink blog with occasional appearances of other kinks. will post about noncon / abuse. I am an adult, and this blog is for adults only.
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diMENsions | outsized | gtsworld
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don't show me that
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dom drop looking at the shaky bruised up tiny in your hands and registering how easy it would have been to fuck up and kill or disfigure them just for your stupid evil fun and oh nnooooo bring your face down here lemme kissy that guilt away
Status: Completed, but will probably post more of these guys
World Count: 3.8k
Dynamic: F/m
Summary: In a 1920s New York where borrowers are known but generally regarded as lowly, a tiny, struggling shoemaker falls into the lap of a lady of luxury. In other words, Ryan Gosling in phm and Driver ruined me and now I'm into blondes and want to manhandle them in my sink. Sorry Ryan. Made new ocs, I'm a little obsessed. I love a little man with a job. And a girl who knows what she wants. Fearplay/non-con, mature but no sex. It's cute. To me.
—
The job went horribly.
It was alright, at first. A rich, smart-dressed human commissioned him to fix a pair of black, cap-toe oxfords. A last, hush-hush resort, apparently, to hire a borrower. Beth doubted the man knew or cared cobbling was a last resort to him, too.
Demand for cordwainers just wasn’t the same as it was when it was still his father’s trade. No one wanted custom shoes anymore, not when they could get shiny, new standardized ones from a factory. No one wanted anything beautiful or hand crafted. Now, his only business was in repair. Still, business from beans was rarer yet. They refused to pay full price, and it was twice as hard and took him twice as long to do the same labor as someone whose pointer finger could be his dance partner.
Even harder and more laborious was the journey to deliver the oxfords. Repair and delivery, that was his slogan now; easier to follow when his customers weren’t as towering as the skyscrapers sprouting up through Manhattan. Still, Beth promised discretion. He pushed the giant unlabeled box of shoes in his cart from his shop, down the street, all the way to the opulent, modern apartment building, complete in its sophisticated art deco. He went in the side door and thought the bellhop was going to squash him like a bug when he threw up in the elevator. That would be fitting; meeting his end under a standard-issue size nine sole.
He left the box outside the apartment door. The button for the bell loomed several feet above him, an entire eternity away. He’d checked the address twice before a sleek, silver cat came slinking across the checkered-floor, a butter-yellow bow tied around its neck. It chased him in his cart to the window, up the curtains, and out the fire escape. They broke three potted plants and fell two balconies before Beth spotted another open window.
He ran for his life. Claws narrowly pulled at the threads on his old tweed jacket. Wiping the mud from his eyes, he lunged for the lace curtains flapping in the breeze. Gloved fingers snagged the fabric and clung on for all he was worth.
The silver cat skidded through the window, across a vanity tabletop, and hit the floor with a thud. It hissed at him, shaking as it crouched to pounce. Beth could see himself in the vanity mirror to his right; clothes in shreds, blond hair a ruffled mess, crooked nose smeared with dirt, and blue, close-set eyes watery with terror. His final moments. Not as a bug, but a mouse.
The carpeted floor rumbled. A giant woman thundered into the room, wrapped in a storm of silk robes the color of mulberries. A matching scarf covered most of her curly blonde bob, pearl earrings swinging as she came to a sudden stop. Dark eyes were furious. “What in the—oh, you damn creature! Out! Out!”
She shooed the hissing silver cat back through the window and slammed it shut. Beth grimaced against the ring of his ears.
Muttering most unladylike curses, the woman in mulberry knelt to collect a necklace and hairbrush. She put it on the vanity and froze.
Beth could only watch in horror as she slunk to her feet. The giant towered higher than the doorbell had been, an even further eternity. Eyes like priceless mahogany scrutinized his muddy little form. “My, my. What is this?”
His breath seized in his chest as hands twice as long as himself swept to the curtains. A pinch pulled the back of his jacket. He hugged desperately to the lace.
“Come on, now, little man. Don’t ruin my curtains.”
A cry died in his throat as giant fingers found his hands and pried them from the fabric. He clawed for purchase, before it dropped terribly out of reach. The fingers turned him to face their owner, but he could not look. He could only stare down, at his leather brogues dangling above the vanity and the potted palm to its left, and even that was too much to bear. Eyelids squeezed shut. Hot, salty tears rolled down his mud-covered cheeks. All this for a pair of oxfords. He shook with an involuntary, all-over tremble.
“Afraid of heights, are we?” The giant mused. She smelled like wood and sweet florals.
Beth blinked fat tears out of his eyes, but they stuck to his lashes and blurred his sight. He sucked in a wet gasp. It had been a long time since someone grabbed him like this. “Don’t—don’t hurt—”
“What’s that, baby?” She jerked him closer to her face and raised an arched brow.
Beth tugged at his jacket, desperate not to fall out of it. “Don’t hurt me,” he wet his lips, keeping his gaze averted. “Pl—please.”
Something stirred in her expression, but he wasn’t looking direct enough to follow. She raised him again, this time over her face as she tilted it back. Forced to look down at it, Beth was met with large, fluttering brown eyes and plum-painted lips. They parted. He glimpsed the white of teeth. Every horror story he had ever heard flashed before his eyes.
“Don’t eat me,” he blurted.
The woman laughed.
“Oh no, I never put anything dirty in my mouth.” She lowered him to properly catch his eye, and now he didn’t dare look away. Sweat dripped down his forehead. Mud slid down his back. She pursed her lips. “Who knows where you’ve been. Scurrying around with the rats and the cockroaches, running from cats.” She wrinkled her lip. “I don’t let anything dirty in my house.”
The giant turned sharply on her heel. Air rushed past him as she headed for a door and all he could think was she was going to literally throw him out. Or worse.
His fears were not alleviated when she marched through the door to a bathroom tiled orchid-pink—he heard once of a borrower flushed down the toilet—and then she dumped him on the narrow sink counter. Crossing the spacious room, she collected bottles from the claw-foot tub and set them next to him.
The woman paused in the doorway and pointed as if to a poodle. “Stay.”
He stood there shellshocked for a second, then slowly peered over the edge of the sink. The black-and-white diamond tile stared up at him with an equally blank face. The bottle next to him rumbled. The woman in mulberry was back, with the flare of a silk robe and a jade butter dish. He watched fearfully as she flipped the lid over and filled it with hot water, placing it next to the faucet with a bar of soap.
She turned to him again, hands on expectant hips. “Well?”
He ogled up at her.
The mulberry woman smacked her lips. Without warning, she swooped him off his feet. Fingers grappled with his limbs. Pointed red nails just avoided his face.
“What are you doing?” His voice cracked.
“I don’t let anything dirty in my house.” She yanked his jacket from his arms. “Off with this.”
Beth twisted and writhed, but the well-kept fingers pulled him from his waistcoat, snapped off his suspenders, and ripped three buttons on his shirt. He kicked extra hard as she wrenched off his brogues. Then went his gloves, his socks, and his trousers, and finally he was left in his long johns. The woman wrinkled her nose at the worn, beige cotton with its many gray patches, and promptly ripped it off him. Then she dropped him naked into the butter dish. The water was so hot, he yelped. She pointed promptly down at the bar of soap. “Use that.”
She swept the pile of discarded clothes into a hand and left in a flurry of mulberry.
Beth lay frozen in the jade tub. It was longer than he was tall, and his feet looked like blobby pale fish in the distorted water lapping at his chest. Steam rose in wisps off the surface. He clutched the sides. His heart was insane. Sweat coated his neck. He could pull himself out. And then what, if he could manage to open the window? What would he be then? Dripping wet and naked, catching his death while he scurried down a fire escape and into the approaching city night?
He sunk lower with the scrunch of his shoulders, watching the door. It was open. Warm, honeyed light pooled on the tile floor.
He blinked for what felt the first time in an hour. Clenching his jaw, Beth shut his eyes and pushed himself below the water. It was so, so hot. He didn’t remember the last time he’d been in a real tub, not some tin can boiled over a candle. Not even a real tub—this butter dish was worth more than his rent for six months. The last time he’d been this hot, it was sweltering in June. It was not like this.
The jade rumbled. Beth opened eyes just as fingers sloshed into the tub and snatched him out. He flopped against them uselessly for purchase, wide-eyed and heart wild again. His feet kicked at the empty air as giant eyes found him. Gasping, he clutched her thumb against his chest.
“Oh good, I’d thought you drowned.” He gawked open-mouthed while the mulberry woman turned attention to the tub and the untouched soap. Her face soured. “I told you to use that.”
He swallowed. “S—sorry.” He didn’t know what he was apologizing for. He didn’t agree to anything.
But the woman twisted lips like he had. “Fine then, we’ll get you clean, right and proper.”
His eyes bulged as she jerked him towards the sink. With her free hand, she grabbed the bar of soap and ran it under the tap until it lathered.
Beth struggled to push her fingers off him. “Please, you really don’t have to—”
“Hush.” She set aside the bar and enveloped him in suds. It looked like caramel and smelled like jasmine and sandalwood, so strong it burned his nose. She ran circles with it across his chest. Beth tried to grab her thumb and she seized his arm, lathering his bicep and working her way to his forearm. Everything was happening so fast, he felt ill. She even cleaned between his fingers, trying to get the grime under his nails. Then she seized the other arm, sweeping her thumb to scrub his armpits, along his sides and his belly, his hips—Beth dreaded what came next, a yell in his throat as the mulberry woman spread his legs. But she skipped to his thighs, rubbing shins between pointer and thumb.
“Here.” She held out a finger of bubbles to him. “For between the legs.”
Beth stared at the fingertip. The soap suds slowly slid down her skin. He glanced up, then back to the finger. She was serious. Her face was expectant, stony and indifferent to the view, like she was cleaning a careless puppy that tracked in mud rather than a grown man and his pride. His face was such a mortifying shade of red, Beth could have passed for a ripe cherry tomato in August. At a loss, he scooped the suds into his hands until they lathered anew. He couldn’t look at the woman, even as he lay in her palm.
It was like she never knew a man to have shame before. Never knew, or never cared.
She flipped him over. Now she used both thumbs to scrub his back. She spread apart the muscle of his shoulder blades, dragging the sides of his neck and down his shoulders. She did the same along his back on either side of his spine, over his ribcage and his hip dips. It was forceful but meticulous, the pressure nigh unbearable, like it was her aim to squish him into jelly. Still, the tissue in her wake was loose, slack like it’d never been.
Then her thumbs found his rear and everything was tense all over again. Beth clawed into her fingers below him, clamping down his jaw until she was satisfied. She moved onto the back of his thighs like it was nothing, massaging behind his knees and along his calves.
I have to call the police, he thought. And tell them what? A human lady washed me like a baby in her sink? Rich. He squirmed with a shriek when she got to his feet.
The mulberry woman rinsed her hand and worked up a new lather. “Now, don’t move.”
Beth held his breath, eyes squeezed tight, while she scrubbed his face and behind his ears. The bubbles fizzled and popped. With a breath, she blew what Beth presumed she thought was a gentle breeze to clear the suds from his eyes. He kept them closed.
While he tried not to have a silent heart attack, she turned on the tap and let it run hot. He whimpered. He feared she would plunge him under it and drown him, but she stuck her hand above him and let the water cascade down her fingers, like a crude shower. The suds melted off him. He was warm from the inside out. She turned him this way and that until she was convinced he was spotless; thumbs rubbing at his chest like there was invisible dirt leftover. His skin shone squeaky-clean. But she was not done when the tap turned off.
Grabbing a brown glass bottle with a yellow label, the woman juggled holding him and opening it. “Keep still, sugar.” She warned. “We don’t want it in your eyes.”
Beth turned himself into a statue as she poured a dollop onto his once-blond head. This soap smelled like coconut.
“Good boy.” The bottle clinked as she set it gently on the counter. He dared look up at her; at her pointed face and strong, painted cupid’s bow; at her downturned, thin brows and thick lashes. She was a breathtaking beauty, a modern model like the ones Beth saw on posters. He could have sworn he’d seen her before. Maybe she just had one of those fashionable faces. Her gaze returned and Beth stared at his feet, hands clasped to cover himself.
The coconut dollop had started to slide down his forehead. Mahogany eyes gleamed as she tilted her head to look at it, pinching his temples to work the soap into his hair. She stirred her fingers; swirling above his ears, over his forehead, down the back of his head, to the base of his skull. Beth had to brace himself, lost against the dizziness. She spent extra time on his crown, until he could feel the blood pumping in his ears. Long, manicured nails scratched at his scalp. This, was gentle. Why, he wanted to ask. Why are you doing this? Why are you doing any of this? It was almost enjoyable, but…
Water ran again. She shielded him, same as before, and he didn’t dare breathe until the tap stopped. The coconut lingered.
A hand towel wrapped around him, stainless white and smelling like a crisp, clean breeze. It was too big, but warm. She rubbed him dry. The towel peeled back and he squirmed as she spread a cool cream over him. It smelled powdery and thick. She took her time, lifting arms and spreading legs to work lotion until he was smooth as her silk robes. She left no crevice behind. It was the most intense and most fixed a human had ever regarded him. His heart still beat like a runaway drum, hammering against his ribcage like passionate fingers on piano keys.
“Last step.” The mulberry woman dabbed a drop of argan oil in his hair, running fingernails through until it was soft. “There.”
She wrapped him back in the towel. The water in the abandoned butter dish was dumped and with the lurch of his stomach, she carried Beth out of the bathroom.
The dim bedroom glowed with a rich amber light on the right bedside table. The potted fern still sat by the window vanity and its lace curtains that no longer flapped in the wind. It was dark beyond. The yellow panels of a changing room stood tall in the corner with foreign scenes of painted birds. Across from the window, a dark-stained door with a crystal knob was ajar to the hall, and a matching closet door rested next to the bathroom. The walls were a moody wine, trailing to a high ceiling with crown molding. The queen bed was grand and luxurious, even for a bean, with its broad walnut headboard and padded plum-blankets. The mulberry woman deposited Beth and his towel cocoon on a fluffy feather pillow on the left of the bed. He watched with wide eyes as she rounded the other side.
“Where—where are my clothes?” He dared.
She waved a flippant hand. “Those dirty little rags? I took care of them.” His heart dropped. She met his eyes across the sea of her bed. “They’ll be dry by morning.”
He tried not to let his relief or his despair show. Beth turned back to the towel, gaze darting over its folds. He pulled it closer. Her bed only smelled more strongly like her, like the soaps and creams and oil she scrubbed him with. He was clean enough to be a new man, but he was still him.
The mulberry woman pulled open her bedside drawer and retrieved two little objects. Dusting the leather brogues off with her fingers, she studied the patterned perforations closely. “These are beautiful shoes,” she said.
Beth held himself still.
She looked up and frowned. “Where did you get them? Shoes like these, with those rags?”
Breath still trembling, he wet his lips. “I made them.”
She raised her eyebrows. “You made them?”
He nodded.
She inspected them again with new eyes. “I’ve never seen a pair so detailed. Even so small.”
His ears turned scarlet. He couldn’t look at her, facing away from the mulberry mountain.
“Won’t you say ‘thank you’?”
Beth realized she was watching. He swallowed. “Thank you.”
She nodded with approval, setting the shoes on the titan of a table. She lined up and straightened them with a perfect fingertip. “A good craftsman takes pride in his work.” She thought for a moment. “Do you make women’s?”
He turned his head in surprise. Brow furrowed, he asked, “You… want a pair?”
“Well, not this style, of course. And bigger, naturally. I go through shoes quickly, you see. I’m always needing them fixed and replaced.”
He gawked at her.
She smacked her lips. “Eloise Elliott? I’m performing in Manhattan Center.”
He raised eyebrows. So he did know her face from the posters. “The ballroom dancer.”
“That’s right.” The star looked the naked borrower over. “And you are?”
He ground his jaw. All that, and she only asked him his name now? He sucked in a troubled breath. “Beth.”
“Just Beth?”
“James Beth. Nobody calls me James. Only my mother.”
Eloise Elliott gave a teasing smile. “Do they ever call you Jimmy?”
“No. My sisters call me JB.”
“And your friends?”
“Beth.” He could not believe how normal this conversation was. “Do you intend to keep me here all night?”
She shrugged. “That depends.”
“On what?” He tapped anxious fingers against his crossed arms.
“On how long your rags take to dry, and if you’re looking for a job.”
Beth glowered.
The earth dipped as Eloise Elliott draped her silk-wrapped body across the mattress. “Oh, don’t give me that, Jimmy.”
He stomped his teeth, heart feral and confused. “I don’t get it. Why did you…?”
Miss Eloise tipped her head. Her mahogany eyes twinkled in the low, amber light. Her hair shone like spun gold. “Maybe I have a soft spot for small, sad things. You looked awfully pathetic, dangling from my curtains. Very small. Very sad.” Her lips curved into a smile. “Very scared.”
He closed his eyes to press the image of the smile away. He’d just about had it with beans. The earth dipped again. Beth looked to find her a towering mountain again.
“So, do we have an agreement?” Her hands traced the V of her silk collar. “I will pay you, handsomely, if you will make and repair ballroom shoes for me. I will supply you with food and lodging, and you will tour with me.”
“Tour?”
She shrugged, twirling the sash of her robes. “It’s a very demanding job. But well-travelled, too. You’ll come with me across the states, to Paris, to Florence, to Sydney. To name a few.”
He fixed on the deep plum color of her blankets. His sisters told him once, when he was a boy, purple was the color of royalty in antiquity. He had never been further than this city, never mind the lands where giant emperors once ruled.
“Well? What’ll it be, Jimmy?”
He gripped his arms. “Can I think about it?”
“You have until morning.” With that, Eloise Elliott sauntered to the painted panels of the changing room in the corner. He watched the wispy trees and diving cranes as she flung her silk robes over the top. The dancer reappeared in a lily-green nightgown, taking off her pearl earrings. The nightgown was also silk, with a square, delicate neckline of lace and a raised waist. The fabric was thinner than the robes, and Beth could see her nipples through it. He averted his eyes.
The earth dipped for the last time that night as she slid under the covers. The bedside light flicked off. Moonlight illuminated the lace curtains. Beth sat upright in his nest of a towel, one hand clutching his arm, the other fiddling with a fiber so fiercely, he thought to rip it out.
Custom shoes. For a famous formal ballroom dancer. He could almost feel his father’s hands on his shoulders, shaking him like he was stupid. He could brush up on women’s shoes, make her Mary Janes with a French heel and rosettes, or T-Straps with a spool heel and embellished rhinestones, the best dancing shoes she’d ever worn… But to leave his mother and his sisters, to leave New York… to go to Paris… Florence… Sydney, an entire hemisphere away…
Beth ripped the towel fiber out. He never knew a borrower to do such things. The world was too big for him.
He sighed. The night was quiet. A clock ticked elsewhere in the vast apartment, somewhere down the hall. He felt dark eyes on him.
“Do one job for me, here in Manhattan. Decide then.” Eloise proposed, and he could see the huge silhouette of her head against the moonlight. “I saw the shoes. You can do so much better than rags, Jimmy.”
Beth swallowed and turned away, pulling the oversized towel around him like a blanket. The feather pillow was the biggest bed he had ever had. It smelled so much like jasmine and sandalwood, it burned his nose. He chewed his bottom lip and shook his head in the dark, where the giant could not see.
read your posts about your dreams where you’re sometimes in the role of a sub and I think that’s really interesting. I had a similar thing years ago where I had dreamt I was a giant sitting in a city even though I always hated the idea of being giant, but when I woke up I found it weirdly hot in an uncomfortable way that I’d find myself thinking about often to try to like recall the uncomfortableness. Did you feel good about the dream or was it weird?? Being a dom and having a dream where you’re tiny AND a dream where you’re being brainwashed seems like it would dredge up interesting feelings
The two tiny dreams weren’t very emotionally intense or like sexual so those weren’t too disturbing and the brainwashing dream felt more like a movie scene. Like I said all very very POV-character instead of “me” necessarily. I think as a writer I spend a lot of time imagining the sub POV regardless so the mental images are very much in my head.
I see so many posts specifically via this account that are like "anyone telling you that they don't need or want affection is OBVIOUSLY touch starved in denial" i wanna start making posts that are like "anyone telling you they freak out when five people talk over each other really loudly in a crowded restaurant with music blasting is OBVIOUSLY too guilty to allow themself to desire socialization" etc etc
I’m gonna start launching into my aftercare rants again lol. obviously everyone’s brain is biologically hardwired to require affection after intense experiences. NO ONE IS DIFFERENT EVERYONE IS THE SAME
I see so many posts specifically via this account that are like "anyone telling you that they don't need or want affection is OBVIOUSLY touch starved in denial" i wanna start making posts that are like "anyone telling you they freak out when five people talk over each other really loudly in a crowded restaurant with music blasting is OBVIOUSLY too guilty to allow themself to desire socialization" etc etc
DeadWife Viktor I think would be a very good candidate for an eeeevil AU Viktor who eventually portal hops and meets “our” Viktor. And then they have selfcest seeexxxxx
Mia gets home and her husband is being way more handsy than usual. Not like he didn’t touch her, or anything, but this specific touch… it’s different. Possessive. His fingers seem to linger every time there’s contact, like he’s savoring her skin for the last time that he’ll ever witness it.
The way he kisses is slightly different, too. So are his eyes. And the way he does his hair.
It’s all subtle. So, so subtle.
But when you’re with a wizard for so many years, you start to pick up on little things. He’d warned her about the possibility of something like this happening. Of others doing what Viktor does- stepping into worlds that aren’t theirs.
It’s almost comical, how this impostor thinks he’s blended in. Like the sudden uptick in white hairs was supposed to be natural. Like his animalistic approach towards her was anything less than usual…
i had a dream once. there was a man (middle-aged, bulky, long red hair and beard) laying naked on a bed with like a bunch of tiny dudes his age on his body. sexually. and i was also tiny and i was interviewing the tinies LMAO. was not participating.
Hey so I actually very recently became interested in g/t and micro/macro type stuff and i feel like I found your blog at a good time to explore this. Came for the fairy in a cage, stayed for the borrowers porn 👍
Not new but still good: Tiny being used as a dildo. But have we considered: Tiny being used… for sounding… as a ball gag… as a but plug… as an impact toy… bullwhip with a tiny tied on the end… tied to a riding crop… tinies being forced to hold onto someone’s nipples for dear life to act as clamps… do you see the vision?
dont you fuckin worry i have considered tiny being used for sounding during many a jackoff sesh
