Diary of the Sister of a Small Boy (1)

February 18th 1967

Dear Diary,
Querido Diario,
убий мене,

I would have slept through the morning if it weren't for Mom's incessant badgering. She shook my shoulder, telling me to get up. I protested adamantly – that is – until she said that brother was missing. Tonic shock went through me for only a second, before I gathered my senses and recalled that Mom, in her forgetfulness, constantly loses my little brother (who, certainly you recall, is a Dimutiatorius at approximately 1.5 cm tall,) one way or another, so I ignored her pleas and tried to push her away. I had been up until 1 AM this previous night reading, so waking up at 7 AM just to find Maxi, who will, assuredly, given his history, turn up anyway, was not appealing. Mum struck me as paranoid and anxious.

“Mamá,” I moaned, trying to avert my eyes from the light of the room, “I don't know where he is.”
“Mathilde, he was only just here! You must help me search for him.”
“He was on your bed last night,” I said, mincing my words with sleepy lethargy, “go look for him there. Mmmaybbee...” I simply couldn't pronounce the rest and tried to fall back asleep.
“Give rise! Your brother is missing and you are not worried??”
“...”
“Up, dear. Or I shall douse your face with water.”
“You masochist,” I whined. I tried lifting myself up but my arms gave way. “He'll turn up.”
“Up, or I will not allow you to attend the symphony tonight.”

This woke me straight up, diary. I had been aching to see the London Philharmonic for months on end before that point. When I heard that they would be traveling to this very city's concert hall, well, I nearly burst from excitement. We were originally supposed to have left by now, actually, but I managed to convince Mother to let us stay an extra two days, so that I could bear witness to that grand symphony, topping off a much-needed vacation with a beautiful finish. (They're doing Tchaikovsky tonight, after all.) This is what I was hoping for, anyway.

“I'm getting up... I'm getting up... Mamá, have you yet examined your own body for him? It seems every time you even sit down, Maxi ends up stuck to you.”
“Of course I have.”
“Your breasts? Mamá, they are very large. Have you -”
“Yes, Mathilde, I have! I have inspected every inch of my flesh. I've even checked to make sure he isn't inside my nipple.”
“...Inside your...? Is that even possi -”
“Mathilde! He isn't on me! Get dressed and go look for him, alright? Oh, and check your own body for him, of course.”

Naturally, I complied with Mamá's hysterical request. I worry about Maxi too, but her anxieties can get out of hand. They are unrealized sentiments, as well, since it is usually herself that Maxi is crushed by. An example: as you know, Diary, Tinies are not allowed in this Hotel. Mother had to sneak him in from the taxi that brought us here from the airport, and placed him in her back pocket as we checked with our previous reservations at the front desk. This took so long – they had misplaced our reservations – that we forgot about poor little Maxi altogether. Once finally in our room, Mamá must have been sitting on him for hours as we wasted time with the television. She only discovered him as we were undressing! This is, sadly, a regular occurrence. I think Maxi has been apologetically promised well near 200 trips to the ice-cream store at this point. It's just as well that we never actually take him there, though. Knowing his bad luck, he'd likely get eaten by Mamá or me, or perhaps an unwitting waitress... Such is the life of a Dimutioria. It's quite absurd, really, that after hundreds of years of their existence within the human species that we have not yet devised strategies to avoid their accidental untimely deaths purely due to our difference in sizes, but such is such, I suppose. I can offer no solutions.

Well, diary, I digress. after some time we concluded that he was probably nowhere to be found within our hotel room or upon/within our bodies, unless one of us unknowingly ingested him in our sleep – my god! Mother insisted that I go and search for him in other corridors of the hotel. I cannot fathom rationally that Maxi, on his own accord, fancied a walk alone through the halls of our hotel. It would be foolish even if his presence there was prohibited. But, to please Mamá, I quickly dressed out of my pajamas. She hugged me – right into her breasts, as I tried to squirm away, (I am quite short, diary, I am embarrassed to say,) and I stepped into the hallway.

It was early dawn. The sun had not yet risen fully, so the shadows of the previous evening lingered in the narrow hallway. I thought I was alone in that quiet hotel, and few besides Mamá and I had yet risen, but I was wrong. A figure emerged from the nearest stairwell. As she approached, it seemed to me that she was nothing less than a maid employed by the hotel. She wore the stereotypical french maid outfit that, I gathered, employees had to wear. It's such a revealing thing... It is belittling of them to wear it. How can they keep their dignity in those skimpy outfits? This woman in particular wore an outfit much to small for her body. Her breasts appeared on the verge of slipping out at the slightest provocation, and it must have been a small miracle that her areolas were not exposed. Perhaps she had proportionally small ones. Her skirt, as well, was short, and her panties were in view at the slightest updraft in the breeze. You will forgive me for being so frank, diary, but this character bewildered me out of my wits. I expected her to be quite embarrassed at her appearance, and expected her to harbor within her some sort of smoldering resentment towards her shameful post. She could have been in a poster against feminism. But, I was mistaken entirely. One must not judge a book by its cover. and then import your own beliefs onto it. I am guilty of putting too many thoughts into her head that I had no way of knowing. She is another case entirely.

She greeted my cordially as she walked past.
“Miss,” I said, “I'm looking for my brother.”
“Your brother?” She inquired. “Don't tell me he's...”
“Dimutiealeon, yes, he is.” She cocked her head.
“Dear, such persons are not allowed here.”
“Um,” I retorted, “but ma'am, what's that?”

I pointed to her chest. I had just noticed that there was a smallish figure at the top of her cleavage. It appeared, indeed, to be a small boy. My hopes rose, that it might be Maxi, and in the recesses of my mind, I began formulating a reprimandation of this maid for placing my brother at her breasts, unfair working conditions aside.

“Ah, this man here?” She said, looking down and blushing. “Oh, heavens! I've been caught red handed!”

She pushed the boy deeper into her cleavage so that he could not be seen. He appeared not to protest, or if he did, it was not visible. I surmise that if he had acted out he could not have effected her very large breasts much by himself. He was rather tiny.

“I'm sorry, dear. This is, um, a guest of the hotel. I realize we prohibit the Dimutios, but... I...”
“He isn't my brother, is he?” I questioned.
“Oh, I should think not!” She said. “The little one is a guest of the hotel. He showed up at our front steps at 7 last night, alone and shivering from the rain.” (Then it cannot be Maxi, I thought, as Mother went to bed around 10, and we knew of his whereabouts up until then.) “I just couldn't bear to see such a cute little guy suffer, so I offered him a room!”
“A room?” She giggled at, I presume, me.
“Well, yes, I couldn't let anyone find out about him, so he's staying between my breasts! I daresay he might have the most comfortable room in the hotel.” She giggled once more, and hugged herself, squeezing the poor man hidden in her bra. That is, assuming she was wearing one. On recollection, I believe her shoulders were bear, so perhaps not.
“Yes, yes,” she continued. “He loves it in there.”
“Um, anyway, miss,” I said, taken aback at her display.

She didn't even bother to keep her voice down in respect of the sleeping guests all around us. Frankly, if nobody ever saw this poor boy (I never got a good glimpse at his age, so forgive me for inconsistencies) between her breasts, her loud mouth would give him away.

“I, er, r-really must find my brother, so I'll be off.” And I really was about to leave, but she stopped me.
“Oh, wait a moment, dear. I must help you find him. It's my duty, and anyway I absolutely love little men. Unless they're naughty of course!” She pulled the man from her cleavage up towards her. “Why, if they're naughty, I might just...” She widened her mouth over the fingers she held the boy in. “Eat them!” He became overcome with fear and jumped from her fingers, tumbling back down into her exposed bosom. She laughed and squeezed her breasts once more, moaning.
“I assure you, my brother is not naughty in the least, and I hope you will not harm him.”
“Oh, deary,” she pouted, “I would never dream of harming one of them. I'm only kidding!”

She advanced towards me, and I tried to back off, but was too slow. She hugged me straight into those disgustingly huge and bare breasts, diary, and it was an experience I'd rather not repeat, but for your sake I shall at least relate it. I think I must have tried to scream as she hugged me, but the flesh silenced (and suffocated) me. I do not doubt that part of my head was obscured by the hug, for I could see nothing but the darkness of her cleavage as she squeezed me. Once she at last released me, I had to catch my breath for a moment as she grinned like a fool before me. I gagged somewhat, and realized that her “guest” had become lodged in my throat. I suppose he was launched into my screaming mouth during the hug. I quickly hunched over and coughed him out into my palm.

“Miss,” I said, still coughing, “please, be more careful...” I handed the nonplussed man to her.
“Oh, my lord! Hither, you deviant,” she said, grabbing him out of my hands.
“As long as I am your host, the only woman's mouth you are allowed to be in is mine!” I stood agape as she tossed the man into her mouth and pressed him against her cheek, as if he were a throat lozenge..
“Now,” she said, her voice a bit broken up as she restrained the man into her cheek with her tongue, “let's find your sweet brother before something happens to him.”

What a nymphomaniac!, I thought. Is this how a respectful woman should treat others? Her essentially sexual rumpus struck me as nauseatingly selfish, impudent, depraved, and, moreover, hugely irrational. No woman can be expected to encounter a tiny person, stranger or otherwise, and confine him into her cleavage (or preferred sexual cleft), stripping him of his will and her of her decency, purely on a whim, for no reason besides her own pleasure. Indeed, this maid must be mentally deranged!, I thought. But diary, though I wished not to associate myself in this absolute rat's society, I had no choice. Nobody else seemed to be around, and this maid assuredly knew the Hotel like the back of her hand. Or, more accurately, like the top of her chest.

What a pig. She made me ashamed to be female, but proved to be indispensable in the search for Maxi.


Then everyone died.
End of part 1.