"Rise and shine, sleepyhead. Even though the evening's getting late."
I casually checked my watch while the reviving midget gazed and fidgeted in drowsy confusion. This time, he had been out for nearly an hour. Everything around dwarfed him, first of all my kingsize bed he was lying on - it could have provided the floor area of a decent living room for the newly minted two-footer who still seemed to question the obvious facts that were mercilessly dawning on him.
"What ... where am I ... what have you done ...?!"
"Squeaky-squeak, Big Bug."
More than me, the baby-man himself seemed to be caught off guard by the sound of his surreally pitched voice, even more in direct comparison to my sonorous, bassy organ. Blushing like a tomato, he tried to struggle to his feet as soon as he saw me lean in, which caused him some effort on the soft ground of my duvet, not least because the arm I was leaning my weight on produced a little hollow in the mattress; and his obvious embarrassment about finding even my torso towering over his reduced form, and maybe also recollecting his butt-naked and anything-but-imposing appearance to me, made him perform the funniest slapstick scene ever. I was laughing my ass off as he toppled and tried to catch himself, as he slewed and got his tootsie tangled in the bedding, as he flopped and crawled around without covering an inch, all the time uttering confused little squeaks of anxiety and strain. As he squirmed to his back, I put my left hand down on his chest to calm and steady him, of course causing anew wriggling. It was so pathetic how his tiny feet kicked and pushed and pawed against my forearm, how his puny mitts groped about, twitching my arm fuzz and even clasping my broad watchstap in their futile attempts to pry my hand off. My palm easily covered all of his chest, I had even my index free to flip his chin up and down while I playfully imitated his squawking, keeping him clutched by my other fingers. My brawny forearm alone exuded more virility than all of his bald, meager body, and as I slowly increased the pressure of my vice-like grip, his quacking turned into groaning and his fidgeting eventually died off. I could feel the agitated pitter-patter of his tiny heart, probably no bigger than the distal phalanx of my thumb.
I casually checked my watch while the reviving midget gazed and fidgeted in drowsy confusion. This time, he had been out for nearly an hour. Everything around dwarfed him, first of all my kingsize bed he was lying on - it could have provided the floor area of a decent living room for the newly minted two-footer who still seemed to question the obvious facts that were mercilessly dawning on him.
"What ... where am I ... what have you done ...?!"
"Squeaky-squeak, Big Bug."
More than me, the baby-man himself seemed to be caught off guard by the sound of his surreally pitched voice, even more in direct comparison to my sonorous, bassy organ. Blushing like a tomato, he tried to struggle to his feet as soon as he saw me lean in, which caused him some effort on the soft ground of my duvet, not least because the arm I was leaning my weight on produced a little hollow in the mattress; and his obvious embarrassment about finding even my torso towering over his reduced form, and maybe also recollecting his butt-naked and anything-but-imposing appearance to me, made him perform the funniest slapstick scene ever. I was laughing my ass off as he toppled and tried to catch himself, as he slewed and got his tootsie tangled in the bedding, as he flopped and crawled around without covering an inch, all the time uttering confused little squeaks of anxiety and strain. As he squirmed to his back, I put my left hand down on his chest to calm and steady him, of course causing anew wriggling. It was so pathetic how his tiny feet kicked and pushed and pawed against my forearm, how his puny mitts groped about, twitching my arm fuzz and even clasping my broad watchstap in their futile attempts to pry my hand off. My palm easily covered all of his chest, I had even my index free to flip his chin up and down while I playfully imitated his squawking, keeping him clutched by my other fingers. My brawny forearm alone exuded more virility than all of his bald, meager body, and as I slowly increased the pressure of my vice-like grip, his quacking turned into groaning and his fidgeting eventually died off. I could feel the agitated pitter-patter of his tiny heart, probably no bigger than the distal phalanx of my thumb.