Story: Poison Pen

Seated Woman With Bent Knee
Egon Schiele (1917)

Poison Pen

copyright 2020 Taedis

(NSFW, cruel, sex, offensive language, slow shrink, 

SPH, shrinking man/normal woman, dubcon, 

feminization, bisexual, cuckold)

c/o Alexander House

Derrygore Drive

Enniskillen, Fermanagh

This first day of July

In the year of our Lord

Nineteen Hundred and Seventeen

Nell,

I loved Harry too much to kill him, but that didn't stop me buying the poison when I learned you'd 

been fucking him. I'd ask if it was worth it, but we both know he wasn't. 

Was it money? I knew things were tight for you, but for Christ's sake I'd've given you anything; all you had to do was whisper.

I know it wasn't for his mind; I'd be disappointed if it was his body. He had broad shoulders and a horse prick corralled between his thighs, but only a rat's ass to push it with. The only time it ever did me any good was when I climbed on top and threw my twat down on it till I could feel the tip gag the back of my throat. 

I loved ya, Nell, but you always were a narcissistic shit. You could've told me before the banns or waited till after the honeymoon, but you had to send your teary confession across the sea to be brought in with our breakfast in Boston.

It took most of the day and some of the night finding the Boston witch. I had to give Harry my arse to make him shut up about where I'd been. He pounded me like a demon over half-an-hour. Fat lot of good it did me. He wouldn't touch my cunt if he didn't have ta, and never touched the little cock at the end of it when he did. 

When it was over I took a douche to shit him out of me.

I slipped Harry the first dose in Manhattan, but it didn't kick in till Atlanta. You should've seen him coming out of the bath that morning pale and trembling in his robe. Not strutting around naked as the day, thrusting his prick in front of him like a cow catcher like he always did.

He skulked around all day more like a thirteen year old virgin than a fucking man. He almost pissed himself when I cornered him alone in some museum and pushed my hand down the front of his trousers . 

“I'll make it quick.” I leaned in close and whispered in his ear. 

“It'll make a mess.” Harry tried to back away, but the wall stopped him.

“I'll take it on my palm and lick it clean. It'll be our secret.”

“Someone's coming.” Harry was scared, but not of some imaginary stranger. “Take it out.”

I locked eyes with Harry as my hand worked it's way around his thighs. I could almost hear him pray I'd leave him alone before I sussed the truth. I traced my nails along his short hairs watching him flinch each time my fingers shifted closer to his center.

I pulled out without giving the game away. Harry saw me sniff his musk from my fingers, but couldn't tell how wet it made me smelling his fear.

That night I was waiting for Harry wearing nothing but a pair of smiles. I had to call him three times before he finally stuck his head out the toilet. He was wearing pajamas. He'd never worn anything to bed before.

You should've heard me, Nell; all sugar and sex wooing him out, like he was still my sun and you my north star. You'd think I was a siren the way he stumbled forward listening to me coo, mesmerized by my spread fanny. Maybe it was the poison making him stupid.; maybe he was just a man.

He'd be a whole lot less when I was done.

I pulled the bottoms off slow figuring he'd protest, but Harry didn't break the spell till I had them almost around his knees. He pulled em up fast, but I'd seen what I'd seen.

“My God, Harry. Your oak's turned to acorns.” I'd been practicing the line so long it was Heaven saying it to his face. 

He hemmed and hawed and started to back toward the toilet before I was on him. He pushed me to the floor; I took his pants with me on the way down.

I knelt there on the carpet naked and wet at my man's feet like a million other brides. Even soft his damn prick used to fall halfway down his thigh; hard it became a truncheon he'd whip your face with till you took him on your tongue. But you knew that.

I knew the poison'd cut him down, but it wasn't till I saw it up close I could appreciate how good a job the Boston witch'd done me. I could barely see it poking out of his bush, almost as big as my thumb tip.

“What did you do to your cock?” I held the head between two fingertips.

“Nothing.” Harry's voice cracked like a castrato. 

“Jesus Christ, I think you're hard. Is that as big as it gets?”

Harry didn't answer.

“What am I supposed to do with that?” 

“I can still …”

“Piss? Maybe. If you squat. I don't know what you did to ruin yourself, but this is my honeymoon and you're not living up to your end. Not with that.”

Harry tried to play the man and prove me wrong. 

When he'd finally given up I crawled over him and sat my twat on his face for the first time ever. He was useless with his tongue, but it felt right queening him. He couldn't see my smile through the bush.

Harry licked my cunny every night to Tampa without getting any better at it. He'd acquired a taste for it by Baton Rouge. Enough to keep me from getting bored.

Harry didn't want to let even a doctor see his disgrace, but after two weeks of having blueberries for balls he was willing if I could find someone discrete who'd see us in the hotel.

The New Orleans conman was worth every penny I wired. From the moment he started his “house call” I was convinced I'd accidentally hired a real doctor. Until he brought out the second poison and told Harry what had to be added to it to fix him.

Truth be told the poison was enough; it was my idea to make Harry come in it. 

Harry tried to talk his way out, but I put my hand on his shoulder, squeezed tight, and begged him to do anything to bring me back the man I loved. 

Harry tried to take the bottle into the toilet with him, but the fake doctor spun some bullshit about self abuse being illegal. Informing the police. The Church. 

Harry looked at me.

“I wouldn't dare, my love,” I said with a straight face. “You're so delicate down there; I might crush what's left.”

The conman doctor said he could do it, but I'd have to be present or the police'd get involved.

Harry hadn't had a fuck or a wank in two weeks though he wore my juices as cologne. He was horny as he was shamed. As shamed as he was stupid.

I sat on the bed watching a strange man frig my husband into a bottle, hand it to him to drink, and have Harry hand over $50 for the privilege.

Harry thought it was working by Austin. By San Antonio he was convinced it was getting bigger even though he still couldn't fuck. He didn't notice how loose his clothes were till Phoenix. He'd lost inches by then. All of him, not just his prick. He saw every doctor who'd take him, but none of them believed he'd ever been six foot.

In fairness, his cock did look bigger. God gave him a rat's brain, his mother a rat's ass. I gave him the prick to match; everything else was catching up.

By San Diego Harry was too small to look me in the eye. Not that he wanted to. I was stronger and proved it every night he tried to keep me from taking my throne.

He got pissy in Los Angeles when I saw a little boy walk by in a sailor's suit and threatened to make him my schoolboy. When we got behind closed doors I stripped him, tossed everything in a trunk, and shipped the lot to you. Everything but his wallet and bank book.

I gave him the choice of staying behind naked and penniless, shrinking in a foreign land or wearing my day clothes and playing maid.

When Harry stepped out of the toilet shaved and wearing a dress the next morning I told him he looked so good I wanted to bugger him with the fat end of a table leg. He looked better after I made him up. There's a photograph enclosed if you want to judge for yourself. A drag queen helped with the tits; you should see one if you ever want a pair of your own.

Harry was a shit maid. If his tongue hadn't gotten better I'd've had half a mind to turn him out on the streets in San Francisco. By Seattle I could plop my fanny on his lips and he'd make me come like his prick never could. For sauce I'd taunt him about the bellboys we'd passed on the way in who wanted to bend Harry over.

I offered to be his pimp.

The smaller Harry got the more men came sniffing up his skirts. I encouraged him to suck off any he liked, frig the ones with money, and save his arse for love, but he was such a shrinking violet he'd just blush and hide behind my skirts whenever anything with a hard-on looked his way. 

By Boise Harry was too little for my clothes; I used his money to keep him in knickers and rouge. By Salt Lake City he'd traded in his maid's cap for a pinafore. The men stopped chasing once I took Harry's tits away.

There's a picture of that enclosed too. The petulant little flower glowering on my lap.

By Denver his body matched his prick. I could pick him up with one hand. I cucked him with a Frenchmen in Chicago and sat on Harry's face as Frenchie was zipping his pants. I could almost fit Harry's whole head up my cunt, but I left his ears free so I could read him your confession. And the warning you sent him the week after. I'm not a fool, Nell; he never got it.

Harry looked beaten when I got up. Beaten and small and slick. He was nothing. Had nothing. He took the final poison knowing what it'd do.

That's my revenge. Not against Harry, but you, Nell. If he'd fucked anyone else I'd've divorced him.

I loved him more than any man, but I'da traded ten of him for you. His betrayal cut; yours murdered me. 

You know I'd never raise a hand against you, Nell. But there are other ways to hurt ya; ways under your skin that don't need a blade. I can leave bruises only we're ever gonna see. Not that I'm ever gonna see you again. That breaks my heart, Nell; I hope it breaks yours.

You'll go to bed each night knowing what I did; knowing it was because of you. You'll wonder about the third poison, hoping it put Harry out of his misery.

It didn't.

Look for what's left of Henry in the mail. He'll be alive when I send him. I don't know how well he'll travel. The sailors tell me rats get in everything. I took one into my marriage bed so I guess they're on to something.

The waiting will be Hell, asking questions you can't answer. Did I put food in the box? Will it draw rats if I did? Is Harry the bigger rat?

When did I mail him?

I love you; I will not write again.

Bridget (signed)