A Small Lesson

Spring break was almost over. I wasn't ready for it, of course, but it had rudely ignored my wishes. I'd spent the last week or so hanging out in my apartment, blessedly roommate-free and living the college student dream: staying up to all hours of the night, destroying pizzas and bags of ramen, and drinking more beer than my waistline could possibly survive.

But it was spring break, ya know? You gotta have a little fun, even if you're stuck in your apartment by yourself. My friends had rudely abandoned me to my own devices while they jetted off to some compsci convention that I probably wouldn't have gone to even if I did have the money for a trip like that—most of the friends I'd made were programmers and gamers, despite being an English major myself.

Regardless of my own precarious financial situation—not that I was destitute, by any means, but my family had never been wealthy—I did get to enjoy a fairly decadent apartment. My living situation had been figured out for me by my parents when I'd gotten accepted to the local state university after finishing my AA. One of my father's childhood friends also had a son attending, and he most definitely was wealthy.

Unfortunately, Ian was also a huge fucking asshole. Who really didn't want a roommate, despite his parents' decree that they would only pay for his room and board if he had one. Enter me, stage left, and Ian's resentment and entitlement stage right. En garde.

To say that Ian had no concept of self-awareness would be a truly egregious understatement. In no way was I responsible in any way for his situation; given the choice, I probably would have just lived in my van, or the campus dorms at best. But our parents had all been delighted by the idea of us rooming together. And honestly, I'd been a little excited at first as well. Ian and I had seen each other a few times over the years, and while he'd always been a bit self-centered, we'd always gotten along fairly well, and called each other friends. I'd assumed things would go smoothly enough between us, and the apartment was nice. Really nice.

Ian was not.

He'd spent about eighty percent of his time totally ignoring me; which I honestly didn't mind that much. But the other 20% he spent tormenting me in whatever shitty way struck his fancy that day. Calling me fat, throwing chips and popcorn at me from the couch, locking me out of the bathroom while he was gone, eating my food, and various other physically harmless but emotionally abusive behaviors. My parents cared, but didn't think it was worth giving up a free luxury apartment for it.

So I'd stuck it out and ignored him as much as I could. But deep down, I fucking hated that smug sack of trash. He had everything in the world stacked in his favor, and rather than take a mild inconvenience in stride and learn to cohabitate with a friend, he preferred to obsess over hating being controlled by his parents, using me as a scapegoat.

As I sat on the couch, staring wide-eyed at the apartment door, all of those things flashed through my mind... every little snide comment, every time he tripped me as I walked by...

You see, Ian had just gotten home early. As he stepped through the doorway, his "'Sup, nerd—" was interrupted by a yelp of fear, and I watched in disbelief as he literally vanished into thin air, his clothes slumping empty to the floor. Only, I could still hear him. Yelling and cursing and demanding that I... release him?

My heart was pounding in my chest, and my throat had constricted as I jumped up from the couch, a mixture of fear, confusion, and curiosity driving me up. There on the floor were his clothes, right next to his ridiculously expensive leather duffel bag. But the clothes weren't as empty as I'd at first thought; between the small lump shuffling around under them and the angry yelling coming from that general direction, my incredulous mind had only one possible conclusion to draw.

Ian had... shrunk?

My brain swirled as I tried to reconcile a seeming impossibility with the reality in front of me. My head suddenly felt hot, and I almost had to sit back down involuntarily before logic dragged my mind back to pragmatism. If Ian really did get shrunk... I might have room for a little payback.

A twinge of guilt tried to peck at me as my body jerked into motion, but I ignored it and continued dashing toward the clothing. As I reached for his t-shirt, Ian suddenly found an armhole and jumped to his feet, the shirt falling away from him. I had a moment to gulp as his naked body came into view and he staggered, trying to regain his balance. Fuck that guy, but god did he have an amazing body. Every muscle perfectly defined, but not overworked, the perfect dusting of hair in all the right spots, and a beautiful uncut cock bouncing and swinging.

I mean... it was only half an inch long at this point, but who was measuring? He had definitely been shrunk, that much was clear. His normally tall frame had been reduced to a mere six inches, smaller even than a Ken doll—though significantly more endowed.

After each of us had a moment of disorientation, I finished the motion I'd begun a second earlier and scooped the shirt up, ignoring Ian's squawk of protest as he was unceremoniously bundled into a makeshift sack.

"FUCK YOU, YOU LITTLE RAT, WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO T—OOMPH."

His tirade was cut short as I flicked him through the shirt. I immediately felt a little guilty, realizing that I had probably hit him harder than I intended.

"I didn't do anything. I have no fucking idea how you ended up like this. And, uh... sorry about the flick. I didn't mean to hit you that hard," I said, and nudged the lump in the shirt lightly.

"Don't fucking touch me, you..." He didn't finish, but we could both hear the slur ringing through the air like the scream of a sword leaving its scabbard. And cut it did, despite me having hardened myself to his verbal abuse over the last few months. I felt anger boil to the surface of my mind. Maybe he deserves a little steam this time...

I shook the shirt in my hand, harder than a jiggle, but with more control than I had used flicking him. I heard myself bark, "Shut the fuck up. I have had it with your immature, narcissistic bullshittery, every god damn day. What the fuck did I ever do to you to deserve you treating me like trash every fucking day?" I punctuated this with another shake and continued, "I'm sick of it. I'm done. You may have had free reign to fuck with my life before this, but it's time for you to learn a fucking lesson."

My heart was pounding from adrenaline, and part of the shaking of the shirt was just from the tremors in my hands. To my horror, my throat clenched up and I felt hot, angry tears building swiftly in my eyes. Rage, shame, and the loneliness that had built through the school year chased each other through my head like a swarm of bees, and the tears began to spill.

"Why?" I managed to choke out. A half sob ripped its way out of my throat as the shirt blurred in front of me and I tasted the salty burn of a tear sliding onto my lip.

"...Fuck you," came his petulant response.

My tears dried up almost immediately, and I growled at him in anger. "Fine. So be it. You better hope this change is temporary, cuz you're gonna have a real bad time if not." I kicked his belongings out of the way before slamming and locking the apartment door. I stalked back into the middle of the room and took stock, looking for something to trap him in until I could figure out what the hell was going on.

"What are you doing? Where are we going?!" A tiny thrill of sick joy danced through my chest at hearing the slight panic in his voice.

"Nowhere."

Suddenly my eye caught on a tall, clear glass vase on top of the fridge; a remnant of some girl's flowers on one of the nights Ian banished me to my room under threat of physical retribution if I interrupted his date. I smirked. Gotcha.

He tried scrabbling at the edges of the vase as I shoved him in, but his normally powerful muscles were no match for me being twelve times his size. He fell to the bottom of the vase with a yell of fear, and then immediately jumped to his feet and banged on the glass, barely shaking the heavy container. "LET ME OUT OF HERE YOU LITTLE FUCK. I'M GONNA—"

He stopped on seeing my facial expression shift, my eyes drooping into a death glare and one eyebrow flicking upward, bringing a subtle threat. I let the silence go for a couple of seconds, the only sound being Ian's loud breathing as he huffed and flexed his muscles, staring daggers at me.

Even mad and disheveled, his naked body was amazing. He had one hand planted firmly over his dick, but other than that I had no complaints. Messy brown curls constantly threatened to fall onto his—completely irate—face, which sported an attractive short beard. The skin covering his bulky frame had just enough swarth to it to make me think he might have some Brazilian or Turkish blood. He had great thighs, too; not too muscular in the front like some body builders, but still thick and full.

After a couple seconds of him breathing, I let my voice be a dangerous simmer as I said, "You are not 'gonna' do anything. You're gonna sit there in that vase and thank your lucky stars that I'm not a psychopath, or you'd be sailing right out that window behind you."

I was pleased to see him blanch in fear as he involuntarily spun toward the window. I caught a glimpse of his furry, round ass right before he turned back to me, and I had an absurd moment of wondering how it would feel to bury my tongue in an inch tall ass.

His look of fear returned swiftly to a glare as I stared him down. A couple seconds later he broke the impromptu staring contest by rolling his eyes and sitting down against the far side of the glass, staring at the table under him.

I smirked and turned toward the kitchen, calling over my shoulder, "Rolling your eyes to save face only works if I don't know that's what you're doing." God it felt good to unleash my sharp tongue on him. I'd been choking back responses for months in self-preservation.

-

An hour later I finished off the last of my beer and belched loudly, shooting a glance over at Ian in his vase. He ignored me, but I knew it annoyed him. I laughed at the sitcom on the TV, again glancing at Ian. He ignored me, but I knew it annoyed him. Gonna be a long night there, buddy. You might want to chill on stressing yourself out.

I hopped up from the couch and pulled another beer from the fridge, popping it open as I walked back. The sitcom had ended right after the final joke I'd laughed at, and the TV was quiet on its menu as I sat down. I didn't press play immediately, instead taking a long quaff of beer and swallowing before turning to Ian. "So... seriously, man. Why? What about me makes you hate me?"

Ian squirmed. "Can we do this some other time?" he grunted through clenched teeth.

My eyebrow quirked up again, this time in confusion. Why is he acting like that? Does he...

"And..." Ian's head tipped back, his eyes closed in resignation. "Can I use the bathroom? I've had to go for like three hours."

A thrill rippled through my abdomen, leaving me extremely confused and my cock just a fraction bigger. I turned, saying nothing, and started the next episode of my show. Ian's elicited—but quickly quashed—moan of desperation and anger could not possibly have brought me more satisfaction.

-

Half an hour of idly swapping between watching Ian try to not piss all over his floor and watching my show, I could tell Ian was truly reaching desperation when he angrily slammed his fist on the glass.

"Seriously. I have to go. Let me out."

I idly swished the last of my beer and sucked it out of the can with a slurp before turning languidly toward him. "You're free to leave. I'm not stopping you."

Ian flashed a look of incredulity, which was quickly replaced by rage. He managed to squeeze his eyes shut and went back to ignoring me, but one of his knees was bouncing, and the hand clamped over his dick was clearly being used to squeeze himself.

A couple of minutes later, I heard him moan as he jumped to his feet. His thighs involuntarily flexed together, his knees touching, in a desperate bid to keep control. His hand was shoved against his dick, pressing fiercely against it. "Yo! I need to go! You can't just leave me in here!"

I chuckled. "I already told you, you're free to go." He growled in rage again.

"FUCK YOU. You know perfectly well I have no way of getting out of this," which he punctuated with another angry slam of his fist against the glass. He had clearly tried to regain his composure, but I kept catching subtle signs of desperation: his body bouncing up and down, his hand squeezing himself, and his gaze wandering distractedly.

I shot him a glance out of the corner of my eye as I said, "Not my problem."

With one last growl of frustration, Ian slammed himself back into a sitting position, but seemed to immediately regret not moving more carefully, as a slight whimper escaped his throat and he pressed desperately at his crotch. I'd already seen it, though; he had let a jet of piss out into his hand, and it was now forming one large drip that dropped onto the glass in front of his tiny figure.

He quickly stood back up, wincing, and spun around—showing me his amazing bubble butt in the process—to piss against the vase. I clucked my tongue and said, "Eh, you probably don't want to piss on that side. You'll be stuck sitting on this side, and you won't be able to see me. Or the TV, for that matter."

I could hear the sneer in Ian's voice as he said, "Like I was watching your stupid fucking show anyway." But the set of his shoulders told me he knew I was right, so I made sure to have a slightly smug look on my face when he turned to face me. He quickly shuffled forward, and then parked his hand in front of his cock as piss suddenly jetted onto the glass near the bottom of the vase.

I leaned back on the couch and caught another glance at his dick behind his hand. He hadn't had a chance to skin back his foreskin, so the piss was messily splashing out of it. Clearly pressing on his dick so much had had an effect, however, as once it was let loose and pissing, blood began to pump into his cock, lengthening it and causing it to rise, his foreskin pulling back until his piss slit was visible and the strong jet of piss coming from it sprayed hard against the glass. My own dick mirrored his, plumping in my shorts without prompting, beginning to press against the thin fabric.

He suddenly looked up and saw me watching. His face went dark, and he tried to turn slightly to the side to hide himself better, but couldn't go far enough without changing where he was pissing. He was clearly trying to avoid the pool of liquid under him getting any bigger or traveling across the glass, but doing so made it effectively impossible to hide himself from me. He glowered at me and re-angled his hand to hide his dick. I chuckled lightly through my nose and went back to watching my show, still stealing a surreptitious glance here and there as he pissed right in front of me with a semi erection.

I heard him curse and turned to look. He had finished pissing and turned back around, only to see that the pool had basically circled the entire base of the vase; as with many receptacles for liquid, it had a slight rise in the middle of the base to keep water from pooling in it. I could see his hands clench and every perfect muscle across his shoulders and back tense and ripple as he tried to control his anger.

That's what you get, asshole. The thought jumped into my head unbidden. And I knew it was an honest representation of my thoughts, but I could also see how it dehumanized him. Guilt gnawed at me again, warring with my desire for revenge. He really did deserve it. There was no arguing with that. But I couldn't bring myself to actually stoop to his level of petty vindictiveness.

"So," I began. "Does this count as an 'other time'?" I had the satisfaction of seeing him tense again, and his butt flexed together, which sent a shimmer of arousal rushing to my dick. I was in danger of tenting my shorts at this rate. "Why?" I said simply.

Ian's posture stayed the same for a few seconds, and then I saw his shoulders slump in defeat. His head nodded forward, but he didn't turn or say anything. Suddenly I heard him draw a shaky breath and sniff hard. Aw, dude.

"No," he said, voice thick with tears. "...Yes. I don't fucking know," he proffered weakly, voice cracking slightly in the middle.

"I'm here. And despite what you're likely thinking at the minute, I'm not actually here to torture you." It wasn't... totally untrue, though I didn't plan on letting him off easy either.

Ian sniffed again, and rubbed his nose with his wrist. He turned back toward me and sank to the floor in the very center of the vase, tucking his legs in to avoid the pool of piss around the edge. His hand idly cupped over his genitals again, but I still had plenty to look at. "I... don't hate you," he began. "I don't even have anything against you, I just... I hate having a roommate just because my parents want to force me to live like we're not rich."

What little respect I had for him was on a thin string, and I assumed the look on my face belied that fact, as he seemed to quickly walk back what he'd said. "I mean, not that, but... You know, they think I should... Ah fuck, I don't know." His rambling devolved into the guilty silence of someone who knows that they're in the wrong.

"So rather than talk to your parents about how you felt, you thought you'd just abuse your roommate instead?" I asked icily.

His indignance was apparent as he stiffened and replied, "I didn't abuse yo—"

I cut him off. "Shut the fuck up." His startled look was all I needed as an invitation to continue. "You are a shallow, self-centered little prick. Your entitlement is so far beyond any sort of acceptable that I would struggle to even express it because of how obvious it should already be to you. You do not get to treat people like shi—"

He was the one to interrupt this time with an angry, "I am not entitled, I am ju—"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP," I roared at him, my eyes flaring wide in anger. My head pounded as fury washed over me. He had the sense to snap his mouth shut and stare down at his feet, his eyes dark in the shadow of the overhead lights.

"You abused me. I have spent the last... seven? months? in complete, abject misery. Every moment I've spent in this apartment has been walking on eggshells, always ready for the next moment where you'll call me a name, or withhold something from me, or trip me as I go by." Ian didn't react, but I knew he was hearing me. "None of that was brought on by me. None. You initiated the bullying in every way. We used to be friends, god damnit! We hung out! What could possibly make you think it was ok to ruin my entire experience here just because your ego demands you be allowed to room alone?"

Ian said nothing, but spun awkwardly on the glass, his hand dropping away from his dick to help him pivot, and sat facing away from me. A numbness settled over me as rage boiled down to emptiness. Time seemed to slow as I stared, waiting for a response. After what felt like forever—but was probably only thirty seconds—I ground out, "Fine. Enjoy your evening," and stood to walk out of the room.

Ian's head came up slightly as he glanced over his shoulder at me and said, "Can I get out now?" My only response was a snort as I turned and strode toward the light switch. "Corey?" he yelled after me.