Nov 7

Dear Diary,

When I got home from the Park N Shop a few days ago, there were two messages from Keith waiting on my answering machine. The first invited me to dinner at his house, complete with directions. The second informed me that he'd been called in to work, dammit, and dinner was regrettably canceled. I swear he sounded shorter, but maybe that was optimism influencing me. At any rate, I haven't returned his call and he hasn't phoned me again. I've noticed that I require appeasement more frequently for my hunger of power. Two days have brought me to the brink of starvation. It's time for a meal.
I sat at my desk, pensively tapping my pen and foot in a quick cadence. Exasperation and frustration were eroding my usually blithe disposition. I decided it was control causing my mood of discord. Actually, it was the lack of control I had with Keith at this stage of the game. My spell was obviously working because Keith was AWOL, Keith was a fucking Jimmy Hoffa. I pondered the simple things as I sat there: What was he wearing? Was he so diminutive that he couldn't reach the sink to brush his teeth? How was he eating? He could call delivery, but would he be brave enough to answer the door? I pictured him a total recluse, refusing to open the door when his pizza was delivered. His wavering voice came out of the mail slot, the pizza delivery boy leaned down to listen. Then a tiny handful of money slipped out and exchanged hands. The delivery boy left the pizza by the door and walked away shaking his head in amusement and pity. I envisioned Keith slowly opening the door. He peeked out and feverishly looked around. He darted out, grabbed the pizza, darted back in the house and slammed the door. I grinned at the image, then I wondered what he'd told the police department. The thought that he'd eaten his gun skipped into my mind, plopped down and began poking at my optimism. I hadn't gotten the impression he would become so melancholy he'd commit suicide but nonetheless that nagging thought made itself unsettlingly comfortable in my mind. I snatched the phone and angrily dialed his number… ring, ring… his machine picked up, but I didn't leave a message. I never leave messages. Tap, tap, tap… my pen and foot tapping more quickly as my shifting thoughts tormented me. I had planted the spell and I wanted to savor my efforts. I always get what I want. A cozy voice piped up and cheerfully announced that Keith couldn't handle his structural changes and had, in fact, chosen to off himself. That sealed my decision. "Fuck it," I grumbled as I looked for my keys.
The house rebelliously stood silently as I pounded on the door. Not a creature was stirring, not even a 3 foot tall man. I assumed he was 3 feet tall. I was clueless about how fast my spell would work, especially since I hadn't seen him to reinforce it. I knocked, my knuckles ached and my blood began to boil. Answer the freaking door already. My only option was to assume curiosity had affected him and driven him to the other side of the door. I pictured him standing there, undecided and too frightened to open the door… but wanting, no needing human contact.
"Keith," I kept my tone even, slightly soothing, "Open the door. I know what's goin' on. I can explain it, I can help. Let me in, Keith."
I stood there with my forehead pressed against the door and listened to the silent house for an hour and a half. Ok, it may have been 30 seconds, but if certainly felt like an hour and a half. I counted to ten, one thousand one… one thousand two… I sighed, I rolled my eyes, I tapped my foot… one thousand nine… at one thousand ten something was going to break-door, window, Keith, something… one thousand… The door slowly opened as far as the chain would allow. Lucky little bastard, I'm proud to say I exhibited supreme self-control. I didn't, despite the urge, throw my shoulder into the door and force it open. The house was blackened, I couldn't see a thing except lumpy shadows because he had the blinds closed and all the lights turned off. I heard him clearly, however, when he said:
"What do you want?" There was a slight tremor in his voice, although he was courageously trying to sound brusque. "Go away, I'm sick."
Sick! I snorted (delicately, as a proper Giantess should.) Yeah, I guess he had been sick. I almost told him to look at the bright side like I was; at least he was still alive. Instead, I repeated that I knew what was happening to him. Silence. Infuriating silence. My patience gave way like an overfilled water balloon.
"Open the god dam door! I know that you're shrinking"
Oops. I said the S-word out loud. However, it got him to peek out of the slit in the door. He was taller than I expected; the top of his head came to just under my chin. He looked haggard, unshaved cheeks shadowed his jaw and his eyes were sunken and haunted. He didn't look like a midget, he looked like a shorter, smaller little brother of the man he was a few days ago. I smiled. I smiled huge. It was working, holy shit my spell was working. Power flowed through me like the mighty Mississippi River. I was triumphant. I'd evoked the dismay on his face and I'd mutated his whole world. I giggled-I couldn't help it, honestly! He didn't see the humor and it must have piqued him, I'm guessing, because he disappeared behind the door and tried to slam it shut. I used one hand, my left hand at that, to thwart his all-out attempt to push the door closed. I giggled harder as I pictured him on the other side of the door, his face bright red with exertion, smoke billowing out of his ears a la Wile E. Coyote as he fought the much quicker and wiser roadrunner. He was on his tiptoes, he leaned with every ounce of strength he had against the door, he grunted through clenched teeth. It was a valiant attempt. Unfortunately for him, it tickled me. My laughter almost gave him enough impetus to succeed. I let the door close an inch or so, teasing him, I let him think he was making progress with his efforts.
"Let me in," I said through my laughter… but it wasn't so much a request as an order.
Unanticipatedly, he stopped pushing… which caused the door to fly open with a splat. He was sent sprawling and he landed on his ass with an ear-ringing thud. People always laugh when someone falls like that, though probably not as hard as I did. Anger, humiliation, fierce determination, defiance and a hint of desperation all fought for predominance in the look he shot me. Which made me laugh harder. Which made him angrier. I found his ineptitude hilarious-I couldn't do anything but laugh at him. He couldn't do anything but sit there and looked pissed and hurt.
"Stop it!" He cried, "stop laughing at me"
I tried to stop, I really did. I pressed my lips together but my body still jerked spasmodically and the laughter bubbled out of my nose. Tears leaked out of the corners of my eyes and I think that's what finally broke the laughter. I didn't want my mascara to run. I walked in and looked down at him. His eyes widened as I approached, his jaw opened and shut like a guppy that somehow leapt out of the aquarium and found itself drinking air.
"Well, well, well," I mused "look at you."
The situation suddenly turned from humorous to enticing. Excitement leaked into the black pools of his eyes. My smile transformed to more of a smirk. It's very sexy to know that someone finds you so sexy. It's also extremely empowering, and power is what floats my boat. Keith looked dazed from the influx of his emotions. For the last three days his world had been constantly changing-simple things had become difficult. I couldn't imagine how it would feel to realize you were shrinking or how a person could adjust. I showed up at his house like a guardian angel and he wanted so badly to fall into my arms and be comforted. His remaining male pride restrained that and kept him sitting on his ass like a fool. As he looked up at me I saw stirrings of arousal complicate his world even further. I imagined him berating himself for finding erotic that which caused him to be in this awful position in the first place. I towered over him… a statue of raw, omnipotent feminine power. He responded like a junky needing a fix… and like a junky, somewhere deep inside himself hated it that he needed the fix, hated it that even if he was risking his life it was impossible for him to take his eyes off of me.
We were frozen in place like a Polaroid picture, it was a Kodak moment. I stood there, a silent, powerful, beautiful Goddess and let him feel his feelings. I watched as his pride, fear and anger obliterated the temporary lust. I smiled. I'd seen what I wanted to see. I was having an absolutely wonderful time. Eventually, he would realize that his only recourse would be to accept his situational status change and admit not only my superiority but also his growing dependence upon me. I was a kid at Disneyland in the meantime as I watched his feelings and emotions clash. I had him at a complete disadvantage, physically and emotionally, and I was giddy with the power and control of it all. I was his Goddess. I was his world. I completely controlled everything… and I bided my time until he figured this out for himself.
The rest of the afternoon and evening weren't that much fun. He had many, many questions-and I regretted that he had police training. I could see him with a bright light in my face, his small body pacing in front of me, rapidly firing questions at me in a stern and authoritative voice. Ok, he was neither stern nor authoritative. He was whiny and irritating and it was bugging the shit out of me. So, I told him "You're whining is irritating the shit out of me. Quit crying!" Patience has never been my biggest or bestest forte and now that I've experienced absolute power I'm even less accepting of people irritating me. The `why' was easy to answer… I thought he was sexy and I wanted him for my own. The `how' was a bit tough. I can't tell him `how' when I'm not sure of the `how' myself. He didn't or wouldn't accept sheer will or mind over matter, and those two arguments are the only explanations I have for what I can do. I want something to happen and it happens. It's enough for me, I don't question it why should he? I told him to not look a gift horse in the mouth and he mentioned a fear of the Greeks even when they bore gifts. On and on, question after question he droned. I needed a cocktail. I'd answered all I could answer and that was going to have to be good enough. Dammit.
My thoughts so far: The spell is working very well. He seems to lose a little strength, courage, power, control, etc. with every inch he shrinks. I seem to gain everything he loses but to a higher power. Somehow in the transfer his characteristics exponentially become stronger or more courageous, if that makes sense. If it doesn't-oh well-can't think of another way to put it. I am sleeping in his bed tonight and he's sleeping… somewhere else, I don't know where. I am writing this now as I lounge in his comfy PJ top and a pair of his boxers. He has a beautiful bed, an excellent mattress, a lot of pillows and soft Egyptian cotton sheets. I like that he pampers himself in the bedroom, it tells me he is very sensual. I wanted him to sleep-well, not exactly `sleep'-with me tonight. My desire has me tied in knots and as soon as I finish writing this I'll have to take matters into my own hands. However, everything happens when and if I want it to happen. I want him to worship me heart and soul. I can't demand that. I can demand physical worship simply by my imposing size, but I want him to choose to make me not only his world but also his religion. I want that more than I want fleeting pleasure tonight. Should he choose poorly-for example not choosing to give me his heart and soul-I would deal with that in another, quicker, more final manner…