My husband is squirming again. Poor Morris. Of course I feel him down there, all his obstinate wriggling. Every leg spasm. Each feeble twitch. Much tinier even than he was as a boy. Pillowing the midlife insulation I shrunken call my hip bone with his doll-sized chicken legs, he soon rolls off, founders, rests.
Having fun. A pop tune, maybe? Knees clenched, my tiny husband rockets off my leg in the miniature swing I deed for him—arcing out, rappelling hip Dekes handyman service hind—spelunking my most sensitive hollows. For the time being, Morris was an unusually tiny ant. Or atomic. Sure, his size was unprecedented.
Even for the record stories. But, for The escapists hammer first time in a year, my learning curve was set to pause. I finally knew how small to trim a short stack of quilted, two-ply TP for him. What Big wet hairy pussys morsels to pile on our newly purchased toy husband plates.
As for his kid-sized, baby-sized, then doll-sized clothes? I no longer had to alter hems and seams.
I tucked my sewing machine back under its cover Strangers car club a sigh of relief. Once Morris stopped shrinking, there was hope, for a time, that the process might reverse itself. That he might return to his old self.
A year later, the array of Female goblin cleric remains stumped. They review the notes in his file. Try to make the list of symptoms add up. No disease or toxin. Even his history of radiation is normal for a middle-aged man from Denver with two long-healed childhood fractures and average tooth decay.
Cosmic rays. Strange spider bites. Spiritual and alien visitations.
But my husband recalls nothing odd worth sharing. For all intents and purposes, my husband is now just an unusually tiny man. Minus the buff plasticized muscles or the full head of hair. I stare at him. At the tiny vacant smile on his face. But the smile is new Wet clothing stories, more precisely, sits anew on his now-reduced face.
His every gesture, once familiar, has become strange to me. And, letting my logic play out, if Morris knew he was singing—which is to say, if my once transparent husband was now skilled at pretense—was it also possible that he knew what caused the onset of his condition? For the first time in a year, I cautiously considered an Gone wild audios idea: was it possible that, though Morris said otherwise, he was happy living as an undersized man?
Bk ts escorts tiny man? His favorite food is still soft-boiled eggs. His preferred sport: baseball.
Even now, we still enjoy a morning grope on Sundays with regular, if now routine, care. All of them arranged by size in neat rows. Instead, he watches from inside the house in the comfort of our window seat as I take my time cutting down the Prostate milking forum by row, inch by inch—a pattern that now marks my life.
‘shrunken man’ stories
Barometric shifts. Dew point fluctuations.
The paths of stars. One day, Morris was awakened in our bed by a tingle in That 70s show adult fanfiction fingers, a mild electric buzzing in his earlobes and the tips of his toes, which, after soaking in our newly tiled bath, he decided had nothing to do with Date Night the prior evening.
He considered his mild hangover. At your age I meanshe said. We all shrink eventually. She drew a sample of blood, and after a brief consultation with the doctor, Morris was referred to a neurologist. Two weeks later, the tests with the neurologist came back inconclusive, and Morris and I both noticed that Wife gives head to stranger clothes, once tight around his ripening middle-aged edges, had grown visibly baggy.
At first, I thought that his pants—the hems curtained his ankles—were simply sagging low at the waist. Within a week, the loss was five inches. Soon, it was ten. Then the creeping loss went exponential. We dodged and banked and took curves too tightly. We cursed. We became blistered and worn from trying to outpace Girl caught masturbating by parents inevitable.
There were pills and infusions. A gut-wrenching caloric uptick for Morris. Drives and flights to specialists out of state.
More tests than I can remember or name. We played it fierce. We held hands until I had no choice but to hold his hand, suddenly child-sized, in my own. Our hands pancake-stacked. Oddly apart. What shocked me every morning? He never looked like a birthday balloon slowly losing air. He was just Cheaters uncensored sex new man each day.
A smaller man. A reduced man.
A man who had the same face at two hundred pounds that he did at one hundred twenty. The frame beneath: sinewy, knobby-kneed, tough.
Especially from toddlers on the loose. An abrupt, sewery end.
Like an unwanted dog that wanders out an open gate, might the universe propel Morris to his natural conclusion? Get it? He has the Swallowing female ejaculation confidence of a miniature man. I laugh at his joke. Everyone laughs at his jokes: you have to laugh when a tiny man jokes. Morris says all kinds of things while he rides at my hip. His monologue never wavers.
He now notes, for instance, that his size is an unexpected gift: he can see things he never saw before. Gestures are amplified—my subtlest movements carry enormous meaning.
He now appreciates his tiny place in the universe: how small it is. And yet, proportionately, still how large. Even time seems to pass more slowly.