by jeffrey-dallas » Mon Aug 03, 2020 3:18 am
3. Courtship
"Mini-girl -- mind if I call you Minnie? There are things that I might do for you. and gladly," Burg said. "But making love is not among them. For that you need a man. A man your size, I mean."
"Oh, no, Mr. Fowler," she protested, laying a tiny hand on his little finger. "It must be you. They were very clear about that. You have just the right-I mean, I exist only for you. I love you."
There was, then, an ulterior motive of some sort. The crew that had sent her to him had a price for its service. He was not, however, obliged to accept it, since this was unsolicited merchandise. She could charm him as she wished, but that would be all. He was not going to pay any exorbitant fee for this doll, or sign any dubious documents.
The strange thing was that, whatever her secret, she did conform to his ideals of femininity. Had she been full-size, her measurements would have been about 36-24-36, or perhaps a trifle more generous, with all the other physical attributes congenial. More than that, there was an intangible charm about her, a symmetry of manner and proportion that evoked pleasure in the contemplation. Her attire complemented her features perfectly, and her face had just that quality of imperfect maturity he preferred. Even her little mannerisms, such as the conservative-yet exciting-way she put her slender fingers on him and the lift of her fine chin when she spoke-all of it was the kind of thing he had been searching for and had, in his not-so-secret heart, never expected to attain. For if such a woman were ever to appear before him, he could be certain she would be snapped up by a more wealthy, muscular or articulate male. Yet here she was.
And when she claimed to love him, he felt an adolescent thrill, square as he knew this reaction to be in an adult.
But...
"I feel complimented," he told her gently. "But I have to point out that there are sharp limits --"
"No. No limits. And we have only forty minutes. Please, Mr. Fowler, we have to get started." She sat down on the coverlet and removed her shoes. One thigh showed alluringly as her leg lifted.
He chucked her under the chin with a careful finger. "There has to be a misunderstanding, sweetheart. You're very pretty and I like you but-maybe you'd better tell me exactly what you mean by 'making love.'"
She stood up. She ran a hand down her side and her yellow dress fell open. She shrugged out of it, folded it meticulously (he liked that, too) and stood before him in bra and petticoat. She drew the petticoat over her head.
"I fear our definitions coincide," Burg said quickly. It was as though a real woman were baring herself and he wasn't used to it. "But-surely you see that it's impossible. Physically impossible. You and I -- well, it's impossible."
"No, it isn't," she said confidently, as she reached behind to unfasten the bra. "You're a man and I'm a woman and I love you." The bra came free, revealing that spectacular scale-model bosom. Then she dropped her panties.
Ah, yes -- complete and desirable in every respect.
And nine inches tall.
"Now it's your turn," she said.
"Look, Minnie-this is ridiculous. I can't --"
"Please, Mr. Fowler!" she urged him. "Get undressed."
"You don't understand --"
She dabbed her face with a handkerchief the size of a postage stamp. "You don't love me! You won't even give me a ch-chance!"
Feeling like both fool and heel, he removed his pajamas. Of all the ways to be spending a Saturday morning!
"Good," she said, looking him over demurely. "Now lie down."
He lay on his back next to her.
She trotted up and leaned against his chin. "You haven't shaved."
"I'll go take care of it right now," he said, grateful for the pretext to remove himself from this embarrassing charade.
"No -- there isn't time. Kiss me," she said, and leaned over his face to plant her full red lips against his mouth. Her breasts nudged his cheek and she had one bare foot braced in his ear, but the overall effect, oddly, was potent.
Then she climbed up a little more so that her breasts hung above his mouth. Suddenly some more of the poem popped into his mind. Queen Helen's commentary on her own physique.
Yea, for my bosom here I sue: / (O Troy Town!) / Thou must give it where 'tis due, / Give it there to the heart's desire. / Whom do I give my bosom to? / (O Troy's down, / Tall Troy's on fire!)
It was given to Burg. The breasts pressed down between his lips, their miniature nipples touching his tongue. He couldn't help warming to the sensual impact of her body.
He licked the heart's desire.
"You do want me, don't you?" she inquired.
What could he say? He was drinking from Helen's goblet and Tall Troy was on fire.
[b]3. Courtship[/b]
"Mini-girl -- mind if I call you Minnie? There are things that I might do for you. and gladly," Burg said. "But making love is not among them. For that you need a man. A man your size, I mean."
"Oh, no, Mr. Fowler," she protested, laying a tiny hand on his little finger. "It must be you. They were very clear about that. You have just the right-I mean, I exist only for you. I love you."
There was, then, an ulterior motive of some sort. The crew that had sent her to him had a price for its service. He was not, however, obliged to accept it, since this was unsolicited merchandise. She could charm him as she wished, but that would be all. He was not going to pay any exorbitant fee for this doll, or sign any dubious documents.
The strange thing was that, whatever her secret, she did conform to his ideals of femininity. Had she been full-size, her measurements would have been about 36-24-36, or perhaps a trifle more generous, with all the other physical attributes congenial. More than that, there was an intangible charm about her, a symmetry of manner and proportion that evoked pleasure in the contemplation. Her attire complemented her features perfectly, and her face had just that quality of imperfect maturity he preferred. Even her little mannerisms, such as the conservative-yet exciting-way she put her slender fingers on him and the lift of her fine chin when she spoke-all of it was the kind of thing he had been searching for and had, in his not-so-secret heart, never expected to attain. For if such a woman were ever to appear before him, he could be certain she would be snapped up by a more wealthy, muscular or articulate male. Yet here she was.
And when she claimed to love him, he felt an adolescent thrill, square as he knew this reaction to be in an adult.
But...
"I feel complimented," he told her gently. "But I have to point out that there are sharp limits --"
"No. No limits. And we have only forty minutes. Please, Mr. Fowler, we have to get started." She sat down on the coverlet and removed her shoes. One thigh showed alluringly as her leg lifted.
He chucked her under the chin with a careful finger. "There has to be a misunderstanding, sweetheart. You're very pretty and I like you but-maybe you'd better tell me exactly what you mean by 'making love.'"
She stood up. She ran a hand down her side and her yellow dress fell open. She shrugged out of it, folded it meticulously (he liked that, too) and stood before him in bra and petticoat. She drew the petticoat over her head.
"I fear our definitions coincide," Burg said quickly. It was as though a real woman were baring herself and he wasn't used to it. "But-surely you see that it's impossible. Physically impossible. You and I -- well, it's impossible."
"No, it isn't," she said confidently, as she reached behind to unfasten the bra. "You're a man and I'm a woman and I love you." The bra came free, revealing that spectacular scale-model bosom. Then she dropped her panties.
Ah, yes -- complete and desirable in every respect.
And nine inches tall.
"Now it's your turn," she said.
"Look, Minnie-this is ridiculous. I can't --"
"Please, Mr. Fowler!" she urged him. "Get undressed."
"You don't understand --"
She dabbed her face with a handkerchief the size of a postage stamp. "You don't love me! You won't even give me a ch-chance!"
Feeling like both fool and heel, he removed his pajamas. Of all the ways to be spending a Saturday morning!
"Good," she said, looking him over demurely. "Now lie down."
He lay on his back next to her.
She trotted up and leaned against his chin. "You haven't shaved."
"I'll go take care of it right now," he said, grateful for the pretext to remove himself from this embarrassing charade.
"No -- there isn't time. Kiss me," she said, and leaned over his face to plant her full red lips against his mouth. Her breasts nudged his cheek and she had one bare foot braced in his ear, but the overall effect, oddly, was potent.
Then she climbed up a little more so that her breasts hung above his mouth. Suddenly some more of the poem popped into his mind. Queen Helen's commentary on her own physique.
[i]Yea, for my bosom here I sue: / (O Troy Town!) / Thou must give it where 'tis due, / Give it there to the heart's desire. / Whom do I give my bosom to? / (O Troy's down, / Tall Troy's on fire!)[/i]
It was given to Burg. The breasts pressed down between his lips, their miniature nipples touching his tongue. He couldn't help warming to the sensual impact of her body.
He licked the heart's desire.
"You do want me, don't you?" she inquired.
What could he say? He was drinking from Helen's goblet and Tall Troy was on fire.