I cleaned the house a little, although I'm nothing resembling a domestic Goddess. I wonder if Martha Stewart would like my advice on domesticity… shrink a man and make it a game! I chased Keith around the living room with the vacuum cleaner. He dodged and zigzagged away in a valiant escape attempt. He tucked and rolled better than Mitch Gaylord and scampered just out of reach under the coffee table. He boldly stood there and mockingly laughed… at me! The little fucker even flipped me off with a double bird. I didn't know whether to laugh or throw the coffee table on his cocky ass. I had been halfheartedly playing up to that point, but his arrogance sweetened the stakes and sparked my competitiveness into high gear. I dropped down on my hands and knees and peered at him. I could have reached for him, but that wasn't really as much fun as yanking the hose off the vacuum and using the hard plastic extender-thingy to threaten his safe-haven. Like a jet engine, the vacuum roared and greedily sucked the air around him. Indecision momentarily clouded his confidence before he turned and bolted-well he tried to bolt. His tiny arms and legs pumped and tried to propel him away, but like a powerful magnet, the Hoover pulled him closer to me. He wrapped his arms around the Redwood sized coffee table leg and desperately clung there. Relentlessly, the strong pull of the vacuum tugged at him, sucked at his power and sucked at his resistance. I grinned when the hose won and I hooked and reeled him in. "Awww," I cried petulantly, "how disappointing! Not even big enough for a keeper!" He tenaciously persisted, he fought and struggled like a trophy bass against the suction holding him prisoner. His small hands dauntlessly pushed against the hard rubber end of the hose and his legs kicked and rocked him to and fro, but all of his efforts were for naught. Despite his juice and determination, I won. Victorious mirth bubbled out of me as I watched my trophy futilely tussle with the vacuum hose. Now this was better! I completely dug his new attitude. I'd triumphantly crushed his weasel-like personality and tapped into his deeper emotions… his anger, pride and courage. I was thrilled to discover he retained small fragments of the characteristics that originally attracted me to him. The whole game was now refreshed and jumped to a completely new level.

I decided to cook us a welcome home dinner. I made a huge pot of my mother's recipe spaghetti sauce and put it on to simmer. Then I dumped mounds of ground sirloin and spices into a deep bowl and plunged my bare hands into the mixture. Trancelike, I squeezed handfuls of the raw meat between my palms and fingers, it's color and consistency felt like I was kneading the chilled insides of dozens of tiny men. Trancelike, Keith sat on a dishtowel with his back against the toaster and raptly watched my every move. I closed my fists, I reveled in the feeling of power as I imagined the tiny men in the bowl screaming, pleading for mercy as they scrambled and frantically dodged my pitiless hands. I heard the hopeless shrieks of the helpless ones who couldn't escape and were squeezed into mushy pulps. Keith's saucer eyes were super-glued to my forearms, he watched with religious amazement, awe and abject fear as the muscles flexed and exemplified my raw strength. The pinkish meat flowed through my fingers like a sieve, entrails of maimed tiny men captured and tortured by my powerful hands. I clenched my fists harder, harder… soft skulls succumbed to my supreme power and brains seeped out of the tops of my hands. I added a little milk and left fingerprints of innards on the jug. I gleefully submerged my hands again. The milk turned pink, but I pictured semi-congealed puddles of blood mixing with the sinew, guts and brains. Again and again I squeezed my hands and tortured and exploded the prisoners of my dungeonous bowl. I felt Keith's eyes burning into me and flawed reality jerked me from my daydream. My hands jumped out of the bowl and sauntered towards him… meat glistened between my fingers and under my nails, bits of ripped off muscle and flesh. "Your buddy won't be by to check on you anymore… matter of fact, none of your cop buddies survived `the bowl.'" I giggled evilly and my hands kept inching towards him. He wailed and raced down the counter like he'd been shot from a gun. He reached the stove, slipped in some splattered sauce, righted himself without getting burned and hurried on until he hit the wall and could retreat no farther. My hands and laughter tracked him like he was the caribou and they were a starving wolf. I pulsed my fingers as if I was holding an invisible heart in front of his cowering body. "This could have been you, this could have been you…" I threateningly chanted in rhythm with my beating hands. My words invaded his corner, reverberated through him… his bones turned to Jell-O and he sank into a gelatinous puddle. I took my pinky and smeared some goo on his chest, a tiny reminder for him when he came to and I went to finish my meatballs.

I set the table for one, complete with candles and Chianti. Keith had given up on clothes and nakedly sat cross-legged by my steaming plate of pasta. I made him sit and watch with a growling, grumbling stomach as I devoured a meatball. The look of disgust that darkened his miniscule face as I chewed the juicy meatball titillated me. I imperceptibly nodded and he voraciously dove into the plate. He shoved tiny handfuls of noodles into his mouth, but it amused me that he warily veered from the meatballs. I leaned back and watched him, entranced, as he attacked the spaghetti. His abandon tickled my lower belly with desire. Unable, unwilling to stop myself I reached for him. I held him upside down by his hips and told him to stretch his hands over his head. He caught a noodle in each hand and I began to slowly spin him. Around and around I rotated him, the linguine noodles covered him completely until he looked like a little pasta-mummy from the waist up. I lifted him to my mouth and nibbled on the dangling tails until my lips whispered against his bare torso. He started to wiggle and shudder, which always seemed to turn my faucets on. I tenderly bit down, my teeth were back hoes against his skin as I raked noodles into my greedy mouth. Again, I told him to grab some noodles and quickly bound him up. I held him by his ankles and shoulders and nibbled him like an ear of corn. I wrapped my lips around him and slurped some sauce, rubbing my rough tongue against his soft skin, tormenting and teasing him. I felt his cock stiffen against my upper lip and I sucked a little harder, enjoying my control over his entire body. I didn't taste the delicious sauce, only his delectable fear and intriguing lust as my lips and tongue explored his entire body. I dragged my lips away, lingering and pulling teasingly on his hard dick. I lowered him towards a meatball and he twisted and fought in my grasp. I stopped and sat him down beside my plate, I let him think I'd given in to him. I sipped my wine and gazed at him through heavy-lidded eyes. I rubbed my thumb around the rim of the glass and pondered his growing agitation with my silence and apparent mercy. I snatched him again and brought him close to my face. Succinctly, each syllable a dagger, I whispered, "You will do as I say, when I say. If I tell you to pick up a meatball, you fucking pick up a meatball." I tilted my hand and dunked him in the dark red wine. I pulled him out and asked, "Got it?" He gamely resisted, he struck the steel bands of my fingers and tried to kick himself free of my hold. I shrugged and submerged him again. I held him under-wine for forever and three seconds, his struggling splashed wine out of the glass and made widening blood stains on the white tablecloth. I finally pulled him out, he spluttered and gasped for breath. Dark red rivers flowed down his body and dropped off his shoulders and head. "Got it?" I persisted. He barely nodded, I moved him towards the wineglass. "NO!" He sort of screamed, still trying to catch his breath, "I mean, YES, yes, I've got it!" I lowered him into the glass anyway, but pulled him right back out. I held his dripping body above my open mouth. The wine looked like fat raindrops of blood as it dropped onto my outstretched tongue and full lips. I ran my tongue over my lips, smearing the wine, and I knew he was remembering watching me swallow that guy from the bar. I devoured his fear, my desire swelled and hungrily demanded more.

This time he didn't hesitate to pick up the meatball when I placed him over it. He struggled with the boulder sized hunk of meat, his small muscles stood out across his back and chest with the strain of his effort to lift and balance it. I held him above my leaned-back face and kept him there so that he had an unobstructed view of my tongue as it played with the meatball. He shuddered as my teeth finally sank into it and split it into little pieces. I dumped him back on the table and grinned as I chewed. "Cops taste pretty damn good, hey?" I said with my mouth full (screw manners when I can make his face look the way it looked when he saw the grisly, masticated meat dancing on my tongue as I spoke.) I think I found another one of his lines because he became pretty agitated and animated. It was beguiling to watch him throw a temper tantrum, to see him so passionately irritated captivated me. He ranted on, I smiled and sipped my wine. I nonchalantly touched the corners of my mouth with the napkin, threw it on him, then left the table. I walked back in to find him, even more furious, shaking with rage. His tantrum screeched to a halt when he saw that I carried his duty belt. I casually tossed it on the table, he stood in the middle like a minute lighthouse. He silently stood there in the island of the belt, surrounded by knee high bullets, handcuffs the size of industrial fans, a can of mace that he could almost chin and a gun that outweighed him at least 3 times. He was reminded what his once 36" waist looked like… but more than that, he was reminded of the man he used to be. "You don't like the way I treat you, speck, then arrest me." I held out my wrists. He stood there, totally stunned, silenced by his embarrassment and humiliation. "Go ahead, pick up the handcuffs… I won't fight you… arrest me if you can… take me down to the station, explain how I have tortured you, tried to kill you… explain it all… they're your friends, they'll accept you like you are, right?" He managed to make his feet work again and walked over to the handcuffs. He hooked his arms around the girder-size steel bracelets and threw his entire weight into them to slip them out of their holder. I watched, thrilled at his gumption, excited by his inability to succeed. He couldn't control the weight as they slipped out of the shiny patent leather belt and the cuffs landed on the table with a quiet clink. He tried, several times he tried, to lift them… he tried to pull them…he couldn't, he lacked the strength. Bored with his perseverance, I casually reached down and plucked them up with my pinky. I tantalizingly dangled them in front of him. "Nothing to it, lightweight," I said in a mocking, degrading tone, all the while swinging the handcuffs in front him like great steel hula hoops. I dropped them over his head and he stood there in his metal prison, his head lowered in defeat. I win. I stole his cockiness… round to me. I reveled in my superiority.

Keith was only 4" tall this morning when I stood him up to the ruler. For the first time, I held him completely in my palm. I looked at him lying there, enthralled… he's a perfect little man, he has perfect hands, perfect fingers, perfect toes. He's my own little toy, Hasbro ain't got shit on me. He's just so small. And he's mine. I felt so big, so strong, so powerful as I looked at him helplessly lying in my hand. I could end him so easily, he breathed because I allowed him to breathe. I am his whole world. His cockiness, while extremely erogenous, drives me to conquer it, to overpower him, play with him, tease him, torment him. He hasn't been very worshipful the last few days, but I did kill his Harley. I think I made him insanely jealous by making him watch me with that guy. Oh well, it's great fun to know that I'm in total control of every aspect of his life. He's not really a person anymore, he's become more of a possession, a toy, a source of amusement. There are so many things I want to do with and to him…I'm glad his mind seems a little more stable now. His life expectancy grew a little. I don't want to completely break him… just bend him to the point of breaking… push his limits, see how much he can take. He bounced back pretty quickly from the handcuff thing… maybe I took all of his pride and all he has is survival at this point… time to go to work…