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Vol. 2: Grinding Coffee

Chapter One

Three months after I took Rosa I came home one day and found her, not standing at devoted attention as she had been every other day, but lying unresponsive on her bed.

I’d had her for such a brief time—we had scarcely begun to try all the things I had wanted to explore together. I’d gotten her a terrarium and made her a bed from a cardboard box and a silk tie I had gotten one Christmas. I had only worn it once and I couldn’t imagine wearing it again, so I was happy to cut it into sheets for Rosa.

I had also fashioned a toilet out of some aquarium tubing and a water filter, stealing the design principles from the septic tank on the RV one of my friends’ parents had and that we got to use one summer.

It took me a while to find doll furniture that matched Rosa’s three-inch scale; Barbie stuff was too big. No doll bed was designed for comfort, but I really wanted Rosa to have a proper chair and table for meals. Eventually I had to look online to find what I wanted, but that’s also how I found a plush couch that Rosa looked so precious when she reclined on it.

Our brief time together had been glorious. She deferred to my desires and anticipated my commands. I could watch her whenever I liked and she would comport herself however I directed. I watched her eat my food, I watched her use my toilet, I watched her bathe in my bowl.

I held her whenever and however I wanted. I pressed her sweet little body against my palm, my chest, my belly, my ass, my cock, my balls, my face, and most of all between my tongue and palate. And she returned my embrace without reservation.

We didn’t converse that much, primarily because I was afraid it would bring up her former life, which I believed I could erase. She never called me “Gordon” again, and since we were always alone I never had to use her name, either. We had lived in the moment, but now I feared I couldn’t make the moment last.

I stood over the terrarium, looking down on the seemingly unconscious Rosa and trying to hide my vexation. I somehow instinctively knew that she was not simply sleeping or deliberately shirking her duties. With much less urgency than I felt, I reached down and slipped my fingers around her limp body, then lifted her up to my face.

She was breathing, but now that I wasn’t distracted by receiving her devotions, I could see that her abdomen had contracted and her limbs had atrophied. I didn’t know if gravity affected her shrunken muscles any differently, but it seemed impossible that this frail acolyte had had the strength to conduct her ministrations as long as she had.

I noticed that her breakfast remained mostly untouched on the table; I had only watched her take a couple of bites that morning, and she must have stopped eating altogether after I left. I fed her every day and cleared her plates, so whatever had diminished her appetite must have onset very recently.

I tried to feed her soup through an eye dropper, but she spat it back up and I couldn’t tell if it was deliberate. She stopped speaking around then, and I spent a desperate night attending her, completely at a loss as to what I should do next. Finally she shut her eyes and wouldn’t open them again. I could still see her draw breath, but it was barely perceptible and I was constantly on the verge of panic.

The morning after that terrible vigil, straining to note Rosa’s faint breathing, I felt numb. A part of me had made a decision, but I refused to acknowledge it. We had spent the night under the bright kitchen lights, but now the dawn was creeping in through the balcony window. I was too empty for a new day.

I changed that morning. I suppose you could say I grew up some. One minute I was sitting at the table feeling sorry for myself, the next I was standing at the counter reaching for the small, clear mixing bowl that Rosa used for bathing. Instead of filling it with soap and warm water, however, I opened the pantry and selected a pricey bottle of extra-virgin olive oil. I poured a generous amount from the bottle into the bowl, then opened my utensil drawer and took out the silicone basting brush.

Turning back to the table, I stood over Rosa, who lay motionless on the tiny doll couch. I had enjoyed her looking up at me from such an angle many times, but now her eyes remained shut. With neither ceremony nor haste, I reached down and curled my fingers around her limp body. Bringing her close to my face, I could see that she continued her slight respiration.

Opening my fingers wider, I nudged her limbs apart until she was almost spread-eagle on my palm. Then I dipped the brush into the olive oil and began to anoint her. I started with her dainty little feet, and it was a testament to her weakness that the supple bristles failed to provoke any observable reflex. I proceeded methodically to her calves and soft thighs, pursing my lips as I noted the oil running into the crevices of her joints.

I paused wistfully when I reached her furry little pussy. It had tasted so sweet the first time I had Rosa in my mouth, and my tongue twitched as it remembered her tiny lips opening to embrace it. Her sweetness had come to an end, however, and so I worked the oily bristles into her mons, across her taint, and between her ass cheeks. I inhaled deeply as I traced around her wide hips, and her tiny bush glistened under my gaze.

I did not dote on her sunken belly any longer than necessary to see it well-coated, but I didn’t hesitate to drizzle more than enough oil onto her pea-sized boobs and massage them with my fingertips. I felt her ribcage under her left tit, and only because of its slower rate could I distinguish her heartbeat from mine.

Remembering her tiny jaw and throat as they chewed and swallowed the food I had made for her, I grew somber as I applied the oil to her still muscles. I brought her under my nose to smell her hair one last time before the oil trickled into it. One of the few conversations we had had about her former life was when I asked her which shampoo she preferred. She had provided the brand, but she let me choose the scent. I chose honeysuckle.

When I brushed her face with the bristles, only then did she make any response to its touch. Most startlingly, she gave an audible gasp, and while I wanted to believe it was out of pleasure, the hard-hearted part of me knew it was probably from shock. I strove to keep the oil out of her mouth and tiny nostrils, but the silky fluid made her cheeks and brow look more lustrous than they had in days. Brushing her long dark hair made it less frizzy and more supple.

My palm was almost as coated in oil as Rosa was, and I didn’t mind a bit. I was doing right by my little acolyte, and my hand was honored to hold her. I gazed at her shiny, recumbent form a few moments more, then brought the heel of my hand close to my mouth and draped her dangling feet across my parted lips.

Rather than tip her in via gravity, I held my palm level and slowly slurped her into my mouth by pulses. Her feet, calves, and thighs all passed between my savoring lips and landed on my welcoming tongue. I could not repress a grunt of gratification as her plump ass and irrepressible bush slipped between my jaws.

Rosa’s arms stretched limply behind her as I slurped her across my palm, but as my lips grasped her belly and lower back, for the first time in days she exercised her muscles to fold her forearms across her chest and clasped her hands between her breasts. I paused my intake to angle my hand up so I could look her right in the face. It was then that she finally opened her eyes.

I stilled my lips and tongue and focused on her tiny face just beyond the tip of my nose. I don’t know how long I held her there, trying to read her expression. The rest of her body may have succumbed to weakness, but Rosa held her face firm.

I have no idea what I expected to find in her eyes. For weeks she had looked at me with what I had taken to be awe and submission. Now there was no fear, nor was there defiance. I was struck by an unfamiliar self-possession in Rosa’s eyes. At that moment, she seemed at peace.

With sudden and unprovoked resolution, I sucked her completely into my mouth and easily swallowed her down into my chest. I sat back in the chair and lowered my oily hand to the table palm up. She had, of course, not made a single sound or movement, and I placed my dry hand just below my sternum to feel her passage. I closed my eyes and luxuriated in my containment and consumption of a woman who had fascinated me so deeply.

There will never be another experience like this, I thought. Savor this day. I blew off class, called in sick to work. I sat in the kitchen for hours, imagining Rosa breaking down into smaller and smaller components, mingling with my blood and my cells. I was overcome with the feeling that she was happy to become part of me, to come home. That’s what I saw in her eyes: gratitude. Yes, definitely gratitude.

My abiding impression of Rosa did not change when I cleaned out her habitat the next day, including the septic tank. Previously I hadn’t examined its contents very thoroughly, but on that final occasion I couldn’t help noticing that most of the solid waste was not her shit but rather partially-digested food. Food that I had provided and watched her eat, but that she had also later thrown up.

My immediate conclusion was to interpret her subterfuge as a sign of respect, a tribute to the pride I took in my cooking. Not for a moment did I consider that Rosa might have been bulimic before I took her. Not my darling Rosa. No, on some level she must have understood she could not endure forever as my worshipper, that she would eventually break. So she sought to bring about the resolution that we both wanted but that neither dared express. She anticipated my needs until the very end.

---

The next few months passed gingerly. I was both gratified and disappointed with Rosa and with myself. It was a singularly joyous experience that I had sought on my own and successfully accomplished. At the same time, I was all-too-aware that I had made mistakes that I was fortunate were not my undoing. I also realized that while I could not truly replace Rosa, neither had she been well-suited to the life of a sex-pet. She had done her best, but her best wasn’t good enough. Next time had to be better.

While I formulated how “next time” would play out, I did what I should have done a long time ago: experiment with the medallion and determine the precise extent of its capacities. I still couldn’t remember how or when it had come into my possession; it had always just lived in a shoebox cluttered with marbles, toy soldiers, trading cards, and other sundries of boyhood. Like something out of a box of Cracker Jacks, only more durable.

The legend “MAKE A WISH” was encouraging but directionless. When I had used the medallion to make my friend Tommy small, I had wanted to play with him, and I instinctively envisioned him the size of a toy soldier, and then he was. I only associated the event with the medallion later when I noticed the indentation on my fingertip left by the embossed lettering.

Similarly, when I shrank the five people at the Student Union, I looked right at them while pinching the medallion, saw them at the size I wanted them, and it was so. Apart from my stalking of Rosa, there was almost no premeditation involved in any of the shrinkings. I wondered if my impulsiveness itself was a necessary component of the magic.

My first few experiments had nothing to do with shrinking. I tried making things appear, I tried making things disappear. I tried to brainwash people, like making someone sell me the latest iPhone for five dollars. I even wished that the President would die. None of it worked.

I narrowed my scope to transformation. I tried changing the color of things, breaking them apart, making them insubstantial to the touch. Finally I tried making things bigger. All failures.

What if the transformation only worked on living things? While the clothes and other personal effects of the six people I had taken had all shrunk with them, perhaps they were so personal as to be “part of” their owners. To test this, I went to the park and tried to turn a gray squirrel black. When that failed, I tried to turn it inside out, then tried to double its size. Nothing. In frustration, I wished it were the size of a mouse, and it was.

My heart leaped at the return of the magic, then sank at the seeming confirmation of my theory about the necessity of impulsiveness. I associated impulsiveness with childishness and disorganization. I saw myself as methodical, decisive, and patient. Acting on impulse was how you found yourself unprepared. Worst of all, it was how you got caught.

By the time I had gotten home from the park, I had convinced myself that the impulse theory was crap. After all, hadn’t I planned taking Rosa for weeks, if not months? I dreamed about what I would do with her, and then I made those dreams a reality. It was the greatest accomplishment of my life, not some passing fancy.

I went straight to my kitchen and took selected six identical water glasses from the cupboard and placed them in a row on the table in front of me. I grabbed a pad of Post-Its, then placed one Post-It on the table in front of each glass with a fraction written on it, left to right: 1/1, 3/4, 2/3, 1/2, 1/3, and 1/4.

Pinching the medallion between the tips of my thumb and forefinger, I saw each of the glasses in turn at a fraction of the size of the leftmost glass, and they were. I used a ruler to verify that I had achieved the exact ratio specified. I then tried to see each of the shrunken glasses back at their original size, and that failed. I also tried and failed to halve them in size again. One irreversible reduction per object seemed to be the rule.

It only then occurred to me that I could have appointed Rosa’s terrarium with whatever furniture I liked—who would accuse me of shoplifting an entire bed? I would have to be careful of security cameras, though.

Then I tried a new angle. I returned the last full-size glass to the cupboard and closed the door. By then I was quite familiar with the glass’s appearance, and I tried to “see” it at half-size while obstructed by the cupboard door. Opening the cupboard, I found the glass remained at full-size. I then placed the glass on the balcony table and looked at it from inside through the window. I pinched the medallion and saw the glass shrink to half-size in accordance with my “vision.”

So line of sight was necessary. I briefly worried that my experimentation might exhaust the medallion’s “charges,” but I decided that if the number of uses was finite it would be better to learn that now rather than in the middle of trying to take more people.

More confident in my appreciation of the medallion’s power, I began to ponder what traits I should be looking for in the next woman I would take. I didn’t kid myself that anyone could be truly happy to become my plaything, but I did imagine the right kind of person could be content. But what was the right kind of person, and how could I identify them?

Rosa clearly hadn’t been the right kind, and neither had Heidi or Claire (I learned their real names when I read about the missing women, but I promptly forgot them). Rosa had been adaptable enough to recognize and accept that keeping me satisfied was critical to her survival, but mere survival hadn’t been enough for her. I needed to find some way to ensure that the next woman I took found something rewarding about her future with me.

I became the soul of patience. Emerging from my unexplained mourning period, I let friends, classmates, and co-workers drag me along to social events. I rekindled platonic relationships and let others unload their romantic woes on me. Not only was I sifting through potential candidates, I was also cataloging instances of people sending mixed signals about what they were looking for in a relationship. No one says outright, “I want you to take me away from everything I know and love and make me into your housepet,” but I suspected some people do say it somehow, if I only knew how to listen.

Once I almost lost sight of my purpose. There was a woman, Jennifer, who was set up on a date with me by a mutual friend. She was so cheerful and intelligent and challenging that I forgot myself and marveled at someone so open and bold. She must have been into me at least a little, as she said yes to a second date. I spent the intervening time fantasizing about taking her home in my pocket and having my way with her. I eventually realized, however, that I had let short-term delight supplant my long-term goal. Jennifer would have made a sweet mouthful, but she wouldn’t have lasted through a single night. We saw each other a few more times, but she sensed the change in me and moved on.

Sometimes I felt that I was hiding behind my patience and observation, that I was letting opportunity pass me by. Maybe I should have taken Jennifer. So what if it only lasted one night? There would be plenty of other nights. Was I just being gun-shy after Rosa?

I sat with my memories of the day I took the three women from the Student Union. Reflexively my hand slipped inside my underwear. Nothing before or since had felt as intoxicatingly powerful. Whatever self-doubts I may have had at the time were smoothed away by my recollection. I had known no limits, and that still staggered me.

In the end I decided that I was too distrustful of my own appetites to indulge them with abandon. I worried that in the grip of my gluttony I would neglect both to savor every drop of experience and to exercise the caution necessary to avoiding discovery.

So my hunt continued, although I didn’t feel any closer to identifying the indications that someone might be well-suited to life as my mouth- and cock-toy. Simple docility seemed insufficient; Rosa had been docile, but she had also been compassionate, probably too much so. I began to wonder if not just surviving but actually thriving as my shrunken pet didn’t require a woman to herself have a taste for cruelty, or at least domination.

Now the fun begins! by Cariwebo

Grabbing Two at a Time by Cariwebo

Help Me! by Cariwebo

@the-big-g

“Other duties as assigned.”

First Day on the Job by Cariwebo

Climb Aboard by Cariwebo

Help Me Up, I’m Exhausted by Cariwebo

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@littleknight Welcome! We see you!

@kisupure

“It’s amazing that whoever made the Algo—all those governments, those business people—didn’t see this coming,” Gray mumbled. “It’s like they got tired of managing their own shit and gave up."

I’m gonna think of this every time I read about how our society refuses to save itself from Covid-19.

c008 by Cariwebo

@kisupure

This was great social scenery in Alpine. Wesson keeps running hot and cold, and I think you do an excellent job keeping Gray—someone we’ve come to know is worldly and competent—plausibly mired in self-doubt.

I’m a little uncertain what was going on with Wesson, his cup, and the bond inspection. I get that it was an opportunity for Gray to observe Wesson and make internal commentary, but why did Wesson want her there? By the end he had lost interest in her. Why did Wesson make a point of having Gray return his cup to the mess tent, and why did the mess corpsman not want to touch it? Was Wesson just trying to show everyone that Gray was his to command?

Missus? What rank was that? Was it a specialty?

Warrant officer, natch.

The whole exploration of the ethics of trading favors with officers makes me curious if female officers similarly extract favors from corpsmen. Clark and Harper sound like they might be grateful for such an opportunity.

I was drunk when you posted this, and I’m hungover now, so the attempts at describing the flavor of whiskey were extra special.

On that note, I’m somewhat dissatisfied by the poker game being so blurry to Gray (and therefore to us). You write dialogue so well, and the Gray-Wesson-Finch triangle is so integral to this story that I think we deserve to hear all the quips and backpedaling. Particularly since the ultimate consequence is Wesson pulling a Cosby.

c017 by Cariwebo