Macrophilic Poetry

[ThomasShort]

I am a fan of macrophilia, which is a fetish centered around basically what my avatar looks like; being shorter or tiny around womenfolk.

Seeing a poetry thread, and seeing as I haven't written spontaneous poetry in ages, I will start writing some fetishistic-ally inspired poetry here (if people don't mind). People are welcome to reply to my poetry with their own words, to form a kind of literary conversation.

I will begin however with a poem by one Baudelaire (the bits in bold, my favourite lines)

The Giantess

At the time when Nature with a lusty spirit
Was conceiving monstrous children each day,
I should have liked to live near a young giantess,
Like a voluptuous cat at the feet of a queen.

I should have liked to see her soul and body thrive
And grow without restraint in her terrible games;
To divine by the mist swimming within her eyes
If her heart harbored a smoldering flame;

To explore leisurely her magnificent form;
To crawl upon the slopes of her enormous knees,
And sometimes in summer, when the unhealthy sun

Makes her stretch out, weary, across the countryside,
To sleep nonchalantly in the shade of her breasts,
Like a peaceful hamlet below a mountainside.


— Translated by William Aggeler

And now, to move onto my own work:


Whilst standing at her door for too long -
The rain unpleasantly, pleasantly dripping down my spine,
Lingering on vertebrae,
My eyes hollow with lust to see -
I clutched the base of my shirt, waiting to see her.

When the door was flung wide,
No creaking, no drama,
Voluptuousness stalked me
Like a lazy cat or some phantasm,
For it took up the airspace between myself and the redhead
Like an aroma;
My desire to stroke those curves was a steam in the air
And I would have to walk through it to devour my own attractions.

I didn't realise the steam was real.

And the steam enveloped me with luscious fingertips
And before my eyes could adjust,
Her feet were laid bare before me
Twitching at the toes with a titillation I would move away,
That I would scarper into the long grass
Where not velociraptors, but beetles twice my height would bite.

Her toes, therefore, as was her flesh,
Seemed calmer and safer, even with the grand size
And I ran to her, away from the storm of my own arousal.

She didn't pick me up though,
And laughed like thunderclaps.

 

[ThomasShort]

Because I am aroused as hell...

Within distemperate longing -
Like maelstroms but wide and deep, smoky -
I find myself surrounded.

I see but knees.

Cornered like a rabbit, the headlights burned out from alcohol,
The gaggle of gorgeous girls had found
My stature amusing, downing shots
Like sunspots and corona flares
Above my little head.

I tried to speak,
But music pounded out my words
Like iron heated on a blacksmiths toolbox
The gaggle pressing in closer to keep me in my corner.

I wouldn't be leaving the club for some time, it seemed,
As the seams of their stockings drove me to bliss.

They saw this,
And left me as they conversed in converses,
Ignoring my pleads for a single stroke.

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Does this fetish require you to use the smallest font available? You will not get as many readers as you would in readily decipherable script.

 

[ThomasShort]

It looked alright on my screen. I did worry if it was too small on others. So, no, I will edit appropriately!

 

[ThomasShort]

Stream of Consciousness Writing:
#1
Inspirational image:

"I don't know what it is with you." I was trying to maintain eye contact whilst she berated me, but being shorter than her knees made this nigh impossible, "What did I tell you!" Her bosom was in the way, and all I could see was the black mini skirt and blouse near bursting from the pressure of her curvaceousness. "What did I tell you!"
"Not to go see her." The smaller ones she kept in her private study talked louder than me at that very moment.
"What was that?" I could imagine her eyes, wide with ferocious bite.
"Not to..."
"Do you want to join them!" She cocked a hip and I nearly broke with the lust I had for her, but if I showed such arousal now she'd break me harder. I think this time she meant it, "Do you want to!"

Grabbing me by my arm - she had to bend over for that - she led me to the door of her private study, tapping the wood with her fingernail (crimson), "For all that is holy Michael, if you see her again, you will end up behind this door and you will end up too small to leave that room. Do you understand me!"

How did this 5ft nothing girl have so much control? When did this happen? She could barely reach the higher shelves in Tesco, and here she was telling me where to stand and how to move and what I could and couldn't do. I only wanted to see the woman who had done this too me; was that so bad! I only wanted to understand. But I still replied, "I do understand Miss, I do." Because I did understand; I comprehended, in my gut, that I was her toy now - possibly even less than that, they got their batteries changed regularly - and what I wanted was about as important as what the flies in the garden wanted on a warm summers day.

And then that's it. I'm pleading with her, but I don't know what for. I'm begging for forgiveness, but I don't know what for. And all I want to do is bask in her dominance, and see her face, but she won't let me.
She walks off with a sway in her hips that once upon a time I would have put my hands on in nightclubs. Now I can't even reach her 'apex', which quivers when she sees me fail at being a man.

She's gone; I put my ear to the door of her private study. I can't hear her pets squeaking. They must be asleep, or terrified. I bet the latter.

 

[ThomasShort]

Stream of Consciousness Writing
#2

Inspirational image:

Fingers grasped the edge of the box, little digits of desire thrumming against the plastic in desperate contemplation. Should he buy her? He had the space in the flat for her, definitely, but was it worth it? Would she be worth it?

Her eyes, rimmed with dark desires of her own, pleaded up to him, but he couldn't quite decipher what she wished for. He couldn't translate that look into something words could manage to convey; he only saw her legs, and the heels, and how daintly, sexily vulnerable she looked in the box.
"Ain't she lovely?" The proprietor, adorned in a blue dress that made curves seem heavenly, had snuck up behind him, "Only recently got her."
"Is that the look in her eyes?"
"Yes!" Patronising, "Well done." She was teaching me something I couldn't and wouldn't understand. She shifted in her box and all her own delusions of arousal seemed to fall from her flesh into my own. I could feel the wants and needs as though they were possessed by my own skin. "She has a special way with you."

***

In one moment you can be a dancer, dreaming of the highlife, dreaming of the big dreams that don't fit in trinket boxes, and the next you meet a girl in a blue dress. And she seems friendly, and she buys you a drink made of something spicy and exotic. You wrap your lips around the edge of the glass, dusted with sugar crystals, and imbibe like the world may end in a single water droplet.

The next thing you know, trying to stand on two feet is impossible, you have to crawl on all fours.
The next thing you know, words flee and become mews and maws.
The next thing you know, your wearing clothes that your mother would never have let you buy a few years ago.

The next thing you don't know? Your now a lovely little pet; be thankful they didn't choose a mouse.

 

[ThomasShort]

Two toes were enough,
To press down and keep him pinned
But not like a butterfly;
Not that sort of pin.
Not a broken back.

Little curses come with guarantees.

 

[ThomasShort]

Stream of Consciousness Writing
#3
Inspirational Image:

A continuation of #1

That was it. It had happened. The vision at the corners of my eyes misbehaved for a moment longer before I was confronted with her red heel. I tried to stand, my legs tight with arousal and the light-sickness that comes from her abilities. I tried to stand again, falling over. Apparently I had already been standing.

"I told you I had had enough." I had actually gone to see her again, the blond who had originally done this too me; she had called it "unlocking my potential". "So now, you live in the study. Just big enough to be a person, too small to leave."
She was right, the door handles were way above my head and she had made sure there was nothing I could stand on. The world went red when she shoved her shoe into my face, pulling me back onto my feet. "I just can't believe you; you can play with the others though."

She stood up, causing a little moan to escape; small size = hormonal imbalances = everything is fucking sexy. She'd drive me mad in her current attire, literally. The arousal would burn me.

Waltzing to her desk she put the ornate box of even-smallers down by my own feet, rubbing her legs against me for obvious effect. She was trying to get me to reach breaking point, where the arousal would be too much, where I'd be filled with supernovae and little dreams and other thoughts people my height shouldn't be thinking. Another rub... oh god...

She left then with a spring in her step, leaving me with the box of people that had tested her before.
Why did I have to go see The Sorceress?

 

[ThomasShort]

#4

Trying a new way of showing my work:

After the Event, Language Deserted the Men

After The Event womankind had to get used to the idea of being the dominant gender and to a degree species of Planet Earth. They did all the science fiction trickery all the novels had talked about - cloning, genetic tests, collecting the material needed to continue humanity - but they couldn't find a single cure for the men of the world.

They glided over her body whilst they took the picture for the office wall of photo's. They had been fighting all day, but it was summer - and like all the other insects - the men had arrived. The photographer had to keep stopping when they crawled up her legs.
By the end of the third hour getting through them it was decided enough was enough, and the men were captured and kept in little tupperware boxes for later. God knows what they'd do with them.

Lucinda worked on her papers, filed the relevancies, and tried her damndest to forget the one that had got all the way to her goddamn breasts. She had told the others how aggravating it was, they had helped get rid of him, but deep down there were other emotions at play. They played with naughtiness, afterhours, without permission. Because even though they were taught to see the men as lesser, as animals, as bugs like the wasps and bees, she saw them as toys.

Biting her lip she headed to the room with the tupperware boxes, unbuttoning the top of her shirt. Flinging the door wide...

***​

He tried to communicate, but after The Event the men had lost the use of language. He tried to find the words of erotica, of safety, of the need for a nice warm bed, when the woman entered, but he couldn't even find the word for woman. Pressing himself up agains the transparency, he watched her enter and unbutton her attire, screaming for help with sounds he couldn't recognise, let alone knew he could pronounce.
In the end they became nouns and verbs together.

 

[ThomasShort]

The Little Desert

The Desert is no place for little men,
With their little thoughts dangling like esoteric heartstrings
(Each with little wants and little needs, strummed by
Little fingers).

But if little people with lust behind the eyes -
Guarded only by the lashes -
Wish to meet Her, who had lipstick made from coalfire
And memories tattooed on her arms that she stole from
Café owners, casiono royales and litttle dealers,
Then they have to go to the sprawling heat,
And battle the boulders of sand
And battle the dinosaurs with riffled skin,
And battle the sun which is big even to a normal man.

If one eventually overcomes large goals in small forms
You can speak with her, in the languages only tongues
Smaller than fingernails can pronounce,
And she will understand with great vigor and wisdom.

Some say she will offer little gifts
In the big desert.
Others say she is the gift.

 

[ThomasShort]

TOUCH​

Eyes like that can only mean horrific temptations,
The kinds of dreams and desires dealt to devils
On summer evenings without sunlight but all the heat,
The tight heat lurking on flesh.
Her eyes are a smouldering, demon summer.

I haven't seen them for many days now,
For I was drawn in, like a pathetic thing,
Her nudity explosive: in other days gone by,
Such nudity would have caused wars between rival tribes
Or turned Shamans into Whores.

She said, if I touched her, I would forever touch her,
And so, I touched her, as I only knew I could;
Her words were true, too true,
And I became the stockings on her legs.

I haven't seen her eyes for many days now,
But I can feel another person in the room,
Lost to the primal gaze
And she says,
If you touch me...

Now, with your mental gaze of erotica and arousal,
You can imagine where the bra came from?