by Donna Lamb
12. Coming Down
I wore another of Tim’s t-shirts when we went downstairs later, after a suitable interlude. I felt so excited about seeing my apartment that I had to not talk at all for fear of bursting into non-stop giggles.
Muffins ragged on me. “Are you going to keep fucking the giant?” she asked in that mother-in-law voice.
I nodded, smiling like someone who has recently been finger-banged into a daze.
“Hell’s Thimble Keepers. I keep forgetting you’re not Catewood. This is just all messed up,” said the little cat. “And you’ve got to get back in the protection of your Compact before someone nasty sees these bonfires you keep lighting.”
“Huh?” I said.
Tim said, “I didn’t say anything,” just as we reached the lobby at the end of the hallway.
The massive double doors to the stairwell next to the elevator looked like they weighed a ton each, but Tim opened them with casual might; oh, them magic muscles. How the heck a little person like me was supposed to use the doors in an emergency I couldn’t imagine. Maybe adrenalin?
Going down the stairs with my boobies bouncing on every step was not an experience I wanted to repeat. I resolved to always take elevators from now on, if available.
Muffins complained. “Hell’s Bell-Bottom Ladies’ Knickerettes! Quit hitting me with your tits!” So, of course, I took an extra little bounce on the next step and regretted it immediately. That hurt, sheesh.
“Ow,” I said and Muffins made a kitten noise that might have been a snigger.
“Are you going to keep the kitten?” Tim asked as we exited on the right floor.
I nodded and shrugged at the same time, which seemed to distract Tim for a moment. Oh, yeah. Boobs, again.
He shook it off as we arrived at my door. My door! I suppressed a squeal by jiggling. My feet and back hurt but I didn’t care, I had my own door!
“The problem with kittens is that they grow up to be cats,” Tim said, handing me the keys while I handed him the little cat.
“Oh, yeah?” said Muffins. “Well, the trouble with giants is... they are so obviously too damn big already! Hell’s Notions and Buttons and All Kinds Sewing Needs!” Regardless, the little beast snuggled into Tim’s palm and began purring again when he stroked her side with his thumb.
“Which key?” I asked him. Both were silvery metal and marked with the same number, 417.
“They’re both alike. You shouldn’t keep the spare with the master, you know.”
I put one of the keys in the lock and tried to turn it, one way, then the other. It wouldn’t turn. I looked up at Tim.
He reached down and turned it easily. Those magic muscles. “Sticks a bit, needs some graphite on it later, huh?” He opened and held the door for me then had to duck a little to come in himself. “Huh?” he said behind me and fiddled with the lock some while I walked in.
I hoped I’d start recognizing things. In a way, I did since it was laid out just like Tim’s apartment one floor up but not as deep or wide. The colors were all different, too.
The one big room had a large bed against one wall, completely curtained off like something in a movie about Victorian times. The other wall had a small dining table against it and an alcove held a desk, a computer and a television, small only compared to the one in Tim’s place. Bookcases covered every other available wall space, though the ones near the TV seemed to hold CD or DVD cases instead.
Right inside the door, the tiny room that in Tim’s place held a stacked set of laundry machines and some storage, instead had a little vehicle like a golf cart for one person parked inside it. The hot pink paint job and mauve leather seats looked cute but what the heck was it doing there and where was I supposed to do my laundry?
Who could I ask all my questions? Muffins? Not with Tim there unless I wanted to convince him I wasn’t just delightfully kooky but an actual nut case. And okay, maybe I was. But the little scooter-thingy bothered me as being just way the heck out of the ordinary. Like waking up with tits, fucking giants, and talking cats was normal.
Tim put the kitten down and she scampered immediately through an open door into the bathroom. I peeked inside, the layout was completely different from Tim’s but had similar fixtures except the tub was truly huge. Nice.
“Well,” said Tim, looking in over my shoulder. “That’s big enough for you to swim in.”
“Big enough for you to use as a tub, you mean, instead of just a shower,” I said. I giggled. “I could scrub your back.”
“We’ll have to try it out,” he said.
“Do you mind?” the kitten complained. “I’m using this room?” Sure enough, she was standing in the small litterbox under the sink glaring at us.
I giggled and turned away. The door to the walk-in closet was also open, just around the corner, and I stepped in, fumbling for a light switch on the wall. Tim reached past me and flipped it.
No half-filled closet space here. I walked in, looking around with my mouth open. Tim didn’t follow but bent his neck to see through the doorway better. The openings here didn’t seem to be as high as the ones in his apartment or he’d grown another four inches since we came down.
“Wow,” he said. “You’ve got a lot of stuff.” An understatement from an overgrown philosopher but he was right.
One wall seemed filled with glittering gowns and dresses and what could only be described as costumes. A rhinestone cowgirl outfit, a mermaid-like costume with fins, a bridal gown. On second glance, the nearer end seemed to contain more normal looking dresses, tops and skirts and the far end held the costumes.
In between the two ends, a dozen or more items that appeared to be very fancy corsets or bustiers hung on funny-looking frames that kept them stretched out into their rather exaggerated female shapes. It looked like a chorus line of nearly two-dimensional strippers.
Under the corsets, or whatever you call them, about two dozen shoes and a few boots spilled a bit haphazardly about with some of them on a couple of shoe trees, some under or on a shelf at the very bottom and a few in boxes. Not one of the visible heels looked any less than four or five inches and some looked impossibly high for my tiny feet.
Another couple of shelves above the clothes held hats, wigs and boxes. Wigs? Long blonde ones, short black Oriental-looking ones, wildly bouffant red ones, even a brown one with the kind of braids that princess wore in that movie about the guy who breathed through an accordion on his chest. Damn names.
The opposite wall of the – calling it a closet seemed wrong, the boudoir? – the dressing room had a long vanity table with lights and mirrors and shelves and cabinets above and below and at each end. Most of these seemed full of cosmetics, half of which I didn’t have the slightest idea of what you used them for. The farther end had a tall cabinet with little drawers, some of which were open and spilled out necklaces, bracelets, bangles and beads.
But the real shocker was the far end of the room where a fine selection of manacles, chains, masks, ropes, scarves and, um, other toys hung from hooks or lay tumbled on shelves. Okay.
I began to wonder just what I did with my life besides owning a talking cat who seemed to think I made magic light shows when I fucked.
Speaking of which, Muffins bounced into the little room, noojing me around the ankles. “Get rid of the giant, we have to talk,” said the cat.
“Hmm?” said Tim, looking around.
I could see that all this stuff might give him the wrong idea about me – or worse, the right one.
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