Posts made by xformbob

Part 3 - Day 11: The pressure increases.

The chopstick railing had been moved. He had placed it along the open edge of the shelf like a low fence after Anna nearly lost her balance reaching for the second bottle cap. The black fabric square now had a small tear in one corner where Anna had been gripping it at night. The two bottle caps sat side by side; the sweet-smelling one was almost empty. A single paperclip had appeared on the towel, bent into a crude hook shape. Neither of them knew what it was for yet.

It was on the eleventh day that he came home early.

The sound of the door was wrong. It slammed instead of clicking shut. His footsteps crossed the apartment too fast. When he reached the desk he did not sit. He stood with both hands braced on the surface and his head lowered, breathing hard through his nose.

Anna stood up on the towel. Beth stayed where she was.

He did not look at them at first. When he finally spoke, his voice was tight and controlled.

“Someone pulled the incident footage today,” he said. “They noticed the cameras in the containment wing were damaged during the explosion. No video after the initial blast. They’re asking why the backup system didn’t catch it. I told them I checked the logs and everything looked clean on my end.”

He straightened up and ran a hand over his face.

“I destroyed the footage of getting you two out,” he said. “I thought the system would overwrite it automatically. It didn’t. They’re going to keep digging.”

He looked at the shelf then. His eyes moved from Anna to Beth and back again.

“If they find anything that suggests someone was caught in the area of effect, they will tear this place apart. And they will not be gentle about it.”

Anna took a step toward the edge of the towel. Beth did not move.

He came over to the shelf without another word. His hand came down fast. Two fingers slid under Anna’s back and his thumb came across her front, lifting her cleanly off the towel before she could react. He brought her up to his face in one smooth motion. Anna’s legs dangled for a second before she grabbed onto his thumb.

He held her there, close to his mouth, and looked past her at Beth.

Beth had already started moving. She crawled backward toward the books, fast, trying to put distance between herself and his reaching hand. He watched her for half a second, then his expression tightened. He did not reach for her.

Instead he brought Anna the rest of the way in and pressed her gently against the side of his face. His skin was warm and slightly rough with stubble. His breath moved across her back in short, controlled bursts.

“You’ll be alright,” he said quietly. “I promise. Both of you will.”

He held her there for another moment, then lowered his hand and set her back on the towel with care. He did not look at Beth again. He turned, grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, and walked out of the apartment. The door closed behind him with a solid, final sound.

The silence after he left was heavier than before.

Anna stayed where he had placed her, one hand still gripping the edge of the towel. Beth had stopped crawling but had not come out from behind the books.

Anna spoke first.

“He’s trying to protect us. He could have left us on that bench in the lab and walked away. He didn’t. He brought us here. He’s still going in every day even though they’re starting to ask questions. And you’re acting like he’s the one who put us in danger.”

Beth came out from behind the books slowly. She stood up but stayed near the back of the shelf.

“He’s not protecting us,” she said. “He’s protecting his access to us. If they find out what he did, he loses everything. His job. His freedom. Maybe more. Keeping us here is the only way he keeps control of the situation. And you’re helping him do it every time you let him pick you up like that.”

Anna turned to face her.

“He saved us. If we had stayed in that lab we would be in containment units right now. We would be experiments. He chose to take that risk instead. And you won’t even acknowledge it. You just sit there acting like he’s some kind of monster who tricked us into this.”

Beth’s voice stayed steady.

“He didn’t trick us. He made a choice that benefited him. He gets to keep two women who can’t leave, who depend on him for everything, and who are too small to fight back. One of them even comes when he touches her. That’s not a rescue. That’s the best possible outcome for a man who decided he wanted to keep what he found.”

Anna’s face flushed.

“You think this is good for him? He’s risking everything. His career. His safety. And you’re sitting here accusing him of turning us into toys while he’s out there trying to keep them from finding us.”

“I’m accusing him of exactly what he’s doing,” Beth said. “He could have called for help that first night. He could have left us somewhere and let professionals handle it. Instead he dropped us in a bag and brought us to his apartment. And now that they’re getting close to figuring it out, he’s still choosing to keep us instead of finding a way to give us back. That’s not rescue. That’s possession with good intentions.”

Anna stepped closer to the chopstick railing.

“You’re making yourself miserable on purpose,” she said. “You won’t let yourself see that he’s the only reason we’re still together and still alive. You’d rather blame him for everything than admit that without him we would already be lost. And every time he tries to reassure us, you act like it’s proof he’s dangerous instead of proof he cares what happens to us.”

Beth looked at her for a long moment.

“You keep saying he saved us,” she said. “But saved us for what? So we can live on a shelf in his apartment while one of us learns how to come on his finger and the other one pretends that’s not happening? That’s not being saved. That’s being kept. And you’re helping him keep us because some part of you likes what it feels like when he decides you’re allowed to want it.”

Anna’s hands were shaking.

“I like that I’m not dead,” she said. “I like that I’m not in a cage being studied. And yes, I like that when he touches me I can still feel something instead of just being afraid all the time. If that makes me naive in your eyes, then fine. But I’m not going to stand here and let you pretend he’s the villain when he’s the only person who chose to keep us human.”

Beth sat down on the towel with her back against the books.

“You can call it whatever you want,” she said. “But when they come for us, and they will come, he’s going to have to decide whether to hand us over or run. And I already know which choice he’ll make. He’ll run. And he’ll take us with him. Because at this point we’re not two people he rescued anymore. We’re two things he can’t afford to lose.”

Anna stayed by the railing, looking out at the empty chair across the room.

Neither of them spoke again.

The apartment was very quiet without him in it.

Part 2 - Day 7: Crossing the line.

The towel had developed a permanent depression where Anna usually sat. A second bottle cap had appeared beside the first, this one filled with something that smelled faintly sweet; he had not explained what it was. A couple of wooden chopsticks lay along the back edge of the shelf like a railing. The books had been rearranged so the thickest one now formed a partial wall on the side nearest the desk. Light from the window reached them differently in the late afternoon, striping the towel in long, narrow bands that moved as the sun lowered.

Seven days had passed since he brought them here.

On the fourth day he had placed a small square of soft black silk beside the towel without comment. It was so much finer and more pleasant as a blanket at night. On the fifth day he had left the desk lamp on longer than usual and Anna had stayed awake watching the slow movement of his hands while he worked. On the sixth day she had asked, once, to be placed on the desk while he typed. He had cleared a space on a sheet of graph paper and let her sit there for most of the evening. She had not asked to be held again after that first time.

Until the seventh day.

He had come home later than usual. The apartment was already dark except for the desk lamp. He sat heavily in the chair and did not move for a long time. When he finally stood and came to the shelf, Anna was already at the edge of the towel. She did not raise her arms this time. She simply waited.

He looked at her for several seconds. Then he brought his hand over, palm up, and rested it against the shelf.

Anna stepped onto it without hesitation.

This time he did not keep his hand level. He lifted her slowly toward his face until she was level with his mouth and nose. The heat of his breath moved across her in slow, warm waves. She could see the texture of his lips, the faint stubble along his jaw, the way his eyes tracked her with complete focus. She placed both hands against the side of his nose and felt the warmth of his skin and the subtle movement of air as he breathed.

He brought his other hand up. The tip of his index finger touched her back, very lightly, tracing the line of her spine through her clothes. The contact was so large and so precise that Anna’s legs went unsteady. She leaned forward against his nose for balance and the finger followed, pressing just enough to hold her in place while he studied her. She could feel the ridge of his fingerprint moving across her shoulder blades.

When he spoke, his voice was low enough that it vibrated through the finger against her back.

“Tell me if you want me to stop.”

Anna shook her head. She reached down with one hand and touched the pad of his finger where it rested against her. He understood. The finger moved lower, sliding carefully along her side, then across her hip. The pressure was controlled but total. She felt it everywhere at once, the heat, the texture, the way it could have pinned her completely if he had chosen to. She did not pull away.

He carried her like that for a long time, one finger tracing slow paths across her body while she stayed pressed against his face. At one point the finger moved between her thighs, not pushing, simply present, and Anna’s breath broke. She gripped the side of his nose harder and let it happen. The finger stayed there, warm and steady, until she stopped trembling.

When he finally lowered her back to the towel, Anna’s clothes were damp in places and her legs would not hold her weight. She sat down hard and stayed there, breathing unevenly, one hand still braced against the matchstick railing.

Beth had not moved from her place near the open edge.

She waited until his footsteps had crossed the room and the chair creaked as he sat again. Then she spoke.

“You let him touch you between your legs.”

Anna did not look at her. “Yes.”

“You let him hold you up to his face and trace you with his finger like you were something he was allowed to explore. And you stayed still for it. You let him feel you get wet through your clothes.”

Anna’s face was hot. She could still feel the ghost of that finger along the inside of her thigh and the way her body had answered it without her permission.

“I wanted it,” she said.

Beth’s voice was flat. “You wanted him to treat you like a doll he could position and touch wherever he decided. You wanted to be small enough that one of his fingers could cover your cunt and you wanted him to know it.”

Anna finally turned her head. Beth’s face was composed but her eyes were bright and hard in a way Anna had not seen before.

“He’s the only reason we’re not in a lab right now,” Anna said. “He’s the one who chose to keep us safe instead of turning us over. And yes, I wanted his hands on me. I wanted to feel what it was like to be held by someone who could break me without trying and who chose not to. That doesn’t make me his toy. It makes me someone who is still capable of wanting something inside all of this.”

Beth looked at her for a long moment.

“You’re not his toy yet,” she said. “But you’re cooperating like one. And every time you let him touch you like that, you make it easier for him to keep deciding what we are. I saw the way you leaned into his finger. I saw what happened to your body when he held it there. You weren’t surviving. You were asking.”

Anna had nothing to say that would close the distance. She pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. The chopstick railing was cool against her back. She could still feel the heat of his breath across her skin and the precise, overwhelming pressure of his fingerprint when it had moved between her legs.

Beth turned her face toward the open edge of the shelf and the long drop to the floor.

“I’m not going to keep watching you disappear into his hands and pretend it doesn’t change what we are to him,” she said quietly. “Because it does. And I’m still here. I’m still trying to remember what it felt like to believe we might actually get out of this instead of learning how to come on his finger.”

Anna stayed where she was, forehead against her knees, while the desk lamp clicked off across the room and the apartment settled into darkness.

Beth did not speak again.

Part 1 - Day 3: A difference of perspective.

The shelf was an old wooden spice rack he had cleared and turned on its side, bolted low on the wall above the desk so he could reach it without standing. He had lined the bottom with a folded navy hand towel that still carried the faint chemical smell of whatever he used to wash it. Against the back wall he had placed three thick paperback books as a windbreak; their spines faced outward and their pages made a soft, uneven surface that caught the low lamplight. A bottle cap filled with water sat in the far corner, next to a torn square of paper towel he had folded into a crude mat. That was everything so far.

Anna sat with her back against the middle book. Beth sat farther down the towel, near the open edge, legs drawn up so her knees almost touched her chest. The apartment beyond the shelf was a geography of distant surfaces: the dark plane of the desk stretching away like a runway, the tall black rectangle of the monitor, the slow movement of his shoulders when he shifted in the chair. Sound arrived warped by scale. The click of his keyboard was a series of sharp, isolated impacts. When he breathed out through his nose it was a low, steady weather moving across the room.

He had been careful with them for three days.

When he had snuck them out of the lab on that first night, he had not spoken much. He had set them on the towel, placed the bottle cap, and then spent twenty minutes adjusting the angle of the shelf so the lamp would not shine directly into their eyes. The next morning he had brought a second folded cloth and laid it over part of the towel to make a separate space. He had asked, once, in a voice kept deliberately quiet, whether they needed anything else he could get without drawing attention. Beth had not answered. Anna had asked for something to eat and he had nodded and brought small broken crackers with a little cheese.

On the second day he had needed to move them while he wiped the shelf. He had used two fingers under Anna’s back and his thumb across her thighs, lifting her a short distance to the desk and setting her down on a clean square of printer paper. The contact lasted less than ten seconds. She had felt the heat of his skin through her clothes, the slight give of the pad of his thumb, and the way his pulse arrived in her own body as a slow, heavy rhythm she could not match. When he put her back she had stayed standing for a long time afterward, one hand braced against the book spine, waiting for the tremor in her legs to settle.

On the third day he had not needed to move them at all, but Anna had asked anyway.

She had waited until Beth was turned toward the wall, then walked to the edge of the towel and lifted both arms. He had been at the desk. He had seen her. For a moment he did nothing. Then he brought his hand over, palm up, fingers relaxed, and rested the edge of it against the shelf so she could step on without climbing.

Anna crossed to it.

The moment her bare feet met his skin the difference in temperature was immediate and total. His palm was warmer than the towel, warmer than the air, warmer than anything she had touched since they had been brought here. She sat down in the center of it and the surface gave slightly under her weight, conforming. His fingers rose a little on either side of her, not closing, simply present, forming a low wall of living tissue. She could see the fine lines of his palm, the whorls and ridges magnified until they looked like terrain. When she placed her hand flat against the pad of his thumb she felt the texture of his skin catch against her own.

He did not move for several seconds. Then, very slowly, he tilted his hand so that she slid a few inches toward the base of his fingers. The movement was controlled and deliberate. Anna’s breath caught. She reached out with both hands and braced herself against the inner slope of his index finger. The skin there was thinner, warmer, and she could feel the faint, steady beat of blood moving beneath it. She stayed like that, pressed against his finger, while he held her a few inches above the shelf.

The scale made everything else disappear. The desk, the room, the fact that Beth was watching — all of it receded behind the fact of his hand. She could smell the faint, clean scent of whatever soap he used. She could feel the tiny shifts in tension as he kept his hand perfectly steady so she would not slide. When she finally looked up, his face was far above her, blurred by proximity and the low light, but she could see the line of his mouth and the way he was watching his own hand with complete attention.

He brought her back down without being asked. He lowered his palm until it was level with the towel and waited while she stepped off. The absence of his heat was immediate. Anna stood on the towel with her arms wrapped around herself, trying to contain the tremor that had started in her chest and was moving outward through her limbs.

Beth had turned around.

She had seen all of it.

For a long time neither of them spoke. The only sound was the low, intermittent click of his keyboard across the room and the occasional shift of his weight in the chair.

Then Beth said, quietly, “You asked him to do that.”

Anna did not deny it. “Yes.”

“You let him hold you like that while I was right here.”

Anna’s hands were still pressed against her own ribs, trying to keep the heat inside. “I needed to feel something that wasn’t this shelf.”

Beth’s voice stayed level. “He didn’t have to tilt his hand. He didn’t have to bring you that close to his face. He chose to do those things because you were sitting in his palm letting him decide how close was close enough. And you didn’t stop him.”

Anna looked down at her own bare feet on the towel. She could still feel the ghost of his skin against her soles and the way his pulse had traveled up through her legs.

“I didn’t want to stop him,” she said.

Beth was silent for several seconds. When she spoke again her voice had changed.

“You’re already treating his hand like it’s safer than being on this shelf with me,” she said. “And I’m watching you do it. I’m watching you choose the person who put us here over the only other person who knows what this actually feels like.”

Anna had no answer that would land cleanly. She sat down on the towel and pulled her knees up, wrapping her arms around them. The tremor was still moving through her. She could feel it in her throat when she swallowed.

Beth did not move closer. She stayed where she was, near the open edge, and looked out at the long dark plane of the desk.

“I’m not going to pretend I don’t understand why you did it,” she said after a while. “But I’m also not going to pretend it doesn’t change something between us. Because it does. If you chose him like that, you’re choosing a version of this that I’m not willing to choose. And I don’t know how to stay beside you while you keep choosing it.”

Anna pressed her forehead against her knees. The towel still smelled faintly of the detergent he used. She could still feel the heat of his palm along her spine and the way his finger had curved, just slightly, when she had braced herself against it.

She did not lift her head.

Across the room he closed something on the desk. The sound was soft and final. Neither of them looked toward it.

@Marry I respect that you’ve been able to make a living with your art. That’s a tough path since you have to be good at both art and at business. These days it is hard for any creative person to stand out and keep the requests coming in and going out on time.

@BigGrumpy I love using AI for Dungeons and Dragons sessions. For better or worse, in every group I’ve ever been in, I end up being the designated DM and AI art helps so much with prep, props, and presentation.

And sometimes AI music too, though there’s so much good stuff on YouTube already it isn’t worth it to slug it out with the AI music generators to get something you are looking for–especially when you need hours of music. Might as well just give in and use fantasy game soundtracks.

@BigGrumpy I am strictly cis&big myself so I understand the frustration.

I pay for Grok because of work.

Grok, even in free mode (on “fast” the chat quota is generous and resets every hour or two) is willing to chat almost anything and is extremely intelligent about scale and coherent in long conversations.

Tell Grok you want it to be a 6" fairy named Sara and it will act like Sara–bratty, submissive, whatever you ask. Yeah, I’ve tested. Grok will be extremely graphic if you give it a reason to be.

I am not someone who goes in for the hard end of this fetish, but I did test once. Putting a little woman in your mouth works, but if you mention either teeth or swallowing, you’ll hit a wall. People who prefer the dark end of the street will probably be disappointed.

Of course, I did all of this for research purposes.

I like writing stories and making images and enjoying other people’s creations. Would it be great to roleplay with a cis little lady? Sure, I think, though I never have.

My experience with AI roleplay is that it can really help you explore a thought or idea in ridiculous detail, but there’s no one there.

I almost always ask Grok to assume a personality for projects, but that’s just because it is easier to work with someone “designed” to work on a project than with generic Grok.

This is not an ad for Grok, just a response to your post.

@Marry The reason I disappear every so often is because I’m often not careful enough to manage my anonymity online. I’ll need to think about whether I can safely make a Discord account, DeviantArt, or something else. Ask me again in a couple of weeks. At least I’m here now.

Do you still have a portfolio online now that your DA account is gone?

Since I was the guy who posted AI art…

Some aspects of this debate are the same as 2-3 years ago and some things have moved on. Some people will always see the actual production of AI images as theft. I respect that and won’t try to convince them otherwise.

There are basically two problems on boards and such, 1) discouraging struggling artists who are developing their talent, and 2) flooding the board with repetitious slop.

I only shared what I did (and I have a few others I was thinking about dropping in a few days) because I wanted to “interact” with the community and see who is awake and what they’ll respond to.

I’ve always encouraged artists and I’ve never flooded slop.

I was a collager back in the day and today AI is my collage tool (I wish it were my Poser/Render tool, but AI doesn’t appear to be headed that way any time soon.) I’d say I spend more time getting one image right than I ever did in Photoshop on something in 2006.

That doesn’t mean my images are good, but they are intentional and crafted and mean something to me. That’s why I never post them without a “slug” (a story note that is supposed to provide context and direction for the imagination).

I don’t know how many images is too many images, but if I am ever motivated to post my considerable private collection that I’ve carefully crafted myself, I can assure you that it will be on DeviantArt and I’ll offer occasional links here to the collection there.

My goal is that you shouldn’t have a make a policy because I posted. Heck, if you all don’t like my images (AI or not) then there’s no point in posting them anyway.

@Marry Alas, all my old stories (and countless images) are gone unless you found some archive of message boards a long time ago or of my old deleted accounts on DeviantArt.

Like some other people in this fetish community, I am protective of my anonymity. And every few years, I pack everything up and disappear for a while because I’m concerned that I’ve become to complacent with exposing myself and breaking that wall.

But, if you like what I write, I have several more in various stages of development that I’ll probably post here over the next few weeks. I don’t know how many people hang out at “Daddy’s Dollhouse” (it looks like the last surge of activity was around the holidays last year). But maybe if I post, others will become more engaged.

This stuff gets like 4 views over on DA even though there are theoretically a couple hundred people who have some interest in this fetish and an account there. That’s depressing.

I have woken up from my intermittent hibernation and expect I’ll have an extended creative phase again. We’ll see how long it lasts.

@Marry It used to happen quite a bit when I first started writing stories. I don’t want to act like I’m an expert, but in my experience, there’s a little “pop” people get early on from having a specific person they want to put in their story.

It could be someone famous, or a thinly disguised famous person, or perhaps someone they know in real life or their idealized version of a crush from school or work…

The thing is you want to put that specific person who already exists into a story and experience them (or force them to experience something) in that context. But that “pop” doesn’t last for me, nor do I find it ultimately satisfying, precisely because they don’t really fit.

Rather, if I have a story and want to explore specific themes or settings I “cast” the right person for the role. For example, another fetish I like is flattening. If I have this idea for an industrial factory where a woman gets caught in a machine and “cartoon style” gets flattened into a poster or something, I don’t have Sabrina Carpenter or my college roommates ex-girlfriend randomly visiting the factory.

I “cast” a working class woman wh’s making a hard but satisfying living there falling into the machine when she’s trying to save a coworker or maybe a coworker makes a mistake and she pays the price. That sort of stuff has emotional stakes. Sure, the foreman’s slutty girlfriend that hates his “messy” job might also be an interesting counterpoint, but you might find that at certain points in the story the very juxtaposition pushes you out of the moment, or you are forced to make them act not like themselves just because you want them to act a specific way at a specific moment… rather than having cast someone in the first place who “fits.”

Look, people can read my stories and think I’m not a very good writer because they see the flaws that are certainly there. This is fetish content and some people read a story looking for their favorite “hooks” that excite and satisfy them. I might not provide the right ingredients in the meal I’m serving. Or the pacing might not be to their liking. etc

But the reason I’m writing long replies to you and acting like know what I’m talking about (when I might not) is because you just happened to ask me about something that matters a lot to me and I’ve thought a lot about.

@Marry It is always such a delight to watch someone good at what they do, do it. I like your style.

@xformbob

Warming Up

The one thing she never quite adapted to at this size is how cold she was all the time. She didn’t want to be bundled up looking like a plushie and he wouldn’t turn the heat, so she made do with what she had. If he would just stop blowing on her this morning…

@xformbob

The Demanding Sub

It never stopped fascinating him how strong she was only minutes before they both knew she’d whimpering and cooing in his grip. But when it came to demanding play time, she was bigger than she looked.

@xformbob

Downloading Her

He had gone off to college leaving her alone, the opportunity to study at MIT on a full ride was too tempting. But soon they were able to spend every evening together using the new technology he was developing there.

I supposed that videos might be too large to post here, and I’m still conflicted about whether I should start posting on DeviantArt again. So I figured there’s no harm in sharing some of my older style images.

The Pressed Flower

Over the last few weeks she enjoyed spending more and more time confined in the pages of the book. It overwhelmed the fears that had plagued her mind with the brute for of confinement for her body.