Growing Into the Job, Post 389: Snooping

Yeah, this is weird, I’m weirded out, I thought to myself, looking at what she now had on her shelf in her bedroom, I should be worried about this, right?

Okay, deep breath, let me back up a bit. The day had started strangely enough, with me waking up in my office. First there was the photoshoot, the lawyer attack, and then - after I’d seen a few afternoon patients with Lakshmi, running late after we’d normally close - I got dragged out of the office, nearly by my collar, by Melissa. We were going home, I guess. Her home. No arguments.

“Heh heh wh-what’s going on?” I had asked with a nervous laugh, having been unceremoniously thrown into the passenger seat of her beemer. She was speeding out of the parking lot, an unhinged look in her eyes. “Is this about the lawyers?” I asked. All she could tell me was that she’d seen something about Cici, heard something about Angie, and needed to get me home where I’d be safe.

“The lawyers are being dealt with,” she’d finished, cryptically, speeding breakneck down the highway, “I’m dealing with the lawyers.”

My knuckles had gone white, gripping the edge of my seat as we zoomed through traffic. Melissa was on edge, worked up, angry and anxious and yet more quiet than I’d seen her in some time, maybe ever. The nervous energy crackled off her; I could almost taste it. “Is everything okay?” I’d asked.

“Yeah,” she’d answered dismissively, glancing up into the rearview at someone she’d just cut off, “I just really need to work out.”

And so, when we got to her place, it was with few words that she’d ushered me inside, checked all the door locks and darkened the windows, ensuring we were safe.  “I don’t really want to leave you alone but I really need to do this, get stronger,” she said, plainly - strange as the sentiment was. She made me promise I wouldn't go anywhere before heading downstairs to the home gym her mother had set up in the basement.

Okay, yes, I knew exercise was important to Melissa. Lots of people use it as therapy, to relax, or as an outlet. So I understood that after what must have been a trying day she needed to go hit the weights.  I clambered myself up onto a stool at the kitchen bar as Melissa was working out downstairs. She’d poured me a quick glass of milk and thrown an unopened bag of chips onto the counter, in case I was hungry. I really wasn’t, but I tried to nibble, after struggling to open the bag. Yuck, these chips are terrible, tasted stale. I checked the expiration date. Fine. But still..blech. I pushed them away, swallowed some milk, and looked around.

For the moment, all was quiet. Had I been here, in this house, all by myself? Ever? Not really, I guess. I admired, again, the modern simplicity of this beautiful place. All whites and neutrals and natural materials. The kitchen was well-appointed, understated but with the latest in appliances. I hopped off my stool and drifted into the living room, with its soaring ceilings and attached indoor pool. I shivered as recovered memories of the weekend came back to me again: the girls, the sex, the - uh - near-drowning. Looking out to the attached, indoor pool, I decided I was going to stay away from the water.

Maybe it was a bad idea, but as I strolled into the hallway to glance at some more family photos. A small collection had been hung on the wall…

(Melissa had been a figure competitor as a teen? In Europe? She tended to be evasive about her childhood, growing up. But I’ve got to ask her about this)

I started thinking about what I saw in Amelia’s video, the girls growing bigger after I orgasmed. It still felt like a dream…or maybe a nightmare. Or a too-real fantasy. I don’t think I’d fully processed it all yet. I'd been telling myself it was impossible, but I figured it was time for me to start accepting all this weirdness. I needed to acknowledge the truth - and not just what happened with the girls. There was a whole list, a long litany of strange events: my divorce, my own shrinking, my new, implausible relationship with my young Office Manager, the too-perfect Melissa.

God, her growth, the abilities she was developing. The changes at the office, the expansion. The study and what the product we were trialing was doing to women. It was only fueling what I’d already seen, how women were becoming the dominant sex. Speaking of - what was happening to the government? To society? Not to mention to me? It was a lot, right? I wasn’t nuts to think so?

<CLANG!> I  heard the sound of weights being lifted and dropped, noises coming up from downstairs. Lots, by the sound of it, lots of weight. How much was she lifting?

The noises shuck me out of my reverie, and that's when I decided that -. Despite my history of avoiding conflict and, well, reality, I couldn’t help but think that all these oddities were somehow related. So though I knew it would be easier to just hide my head and let shit happen, I decided it was time  to investigate some of this weirdness myself. Was I at the center of some huge conspiracy, like I sometimes got the feeling, or was I just being crazy and paranoid? I figured I needed to look deeper, to confirm my own sanity and take back some agency in my life. I realized I’d recently just been a passenger as life spiraled out of control and into a tailspin. Besides, maybe everything was fine, right? I had to get to the bottom of this, get some answers - and prepare myself for what I’d find.

As I looked around I started to notice some things. Take, for example, these pamphlets. There was a small pile of them spread out on the table at the base of the stairs in the front atrium. It looked like they'd been tossed there by Melissa, maybe recently. I felt a tug. Something inside me told me  I shouldn't read through them - I was definitely snooping - but I did. Now I can’t unread them.

Melissa had apparently been going to meetings here and there,  along with some of the other girls. Had I known that? I think I’d known that. Similar to the ones Sheryl had been attending with Olivia for months, these women’s political support groups were super popular. I used to think they were harmless. Not anymore.

These pamphlets and hand-outs looked like take-aways from those nights, some slickly produced, others just stapled-together photocopies. I started to glance through them. Even just the titles: some of it was quite scary stuff. "Becoming Gynarchy: A Consultation on Future Policy Proposals" one of them was titled. They all seemed to have been produced by some think tank or marketing company, probably some fringe groups. An MLM or maybe a cult? These couldn’t be official, or mainstream, right? Like, this one titled "Looking at the Future: Males at Home" It was crazy. I browsed through the rest: "Economic Impact of Restricting Male Involvement in the Workplace", "Legislation and Leverage for a Better Tomorrow" and “Getting Bigger than Him: Nutrition, Exercise and High Heels”.

A little excerpt from “The Good Wife’s Guide to Taking Charge” : “He is experiencing feelings of insecurity and inadequacy because he is not the breadwinner. He feels like he is not contributing as much, and he is worried about how this will affect their relationship. He is starting to feel like he is not good enough, and he is not sure how to cope with these feelings.”

Sound familiar? In fact, here’s the whole next page:

But, yeah. There was a whole pile, and I couldn’t bring myself to really read them all. I skimmed through most though and god help me it was kind of arousing. But scary. Did women these days actually think this way? Did Melissa?? The thought made me shudder. If she had, even at the back of her mind, hopes for changes in the world like this propaganda promised, if she had plans for us derived from some of these pamphlets, what would the future hold for us? Was it healthy for me to stay with her? I know she loved me, and I loved her too. If the world did really change, maybe I actually would want someone like Melissa at my side, protecting me. Maybe I nee-

Suddenly I heard something, from the downstairs gym, below my feet. What the F was that?? It was primal, a loud bellow, and it made my eyes go wide. Was that Melissa…roaring?? And then - <<CLANG!!>>. Metal weights hitting the floor, shaking the house. What was she doing down there?? She’d wanted to work out some aggressions? Yikes.

I shuddered, suddenly aware of what I was doing and put down the pamphlet. Fuck, I was erect. I tried to ignore it. Maybe I’ll, uh, head upstairs.

I took each step of the staircase slowly. Did I really want to look around anymore? Should I quit while I was ahead? My fingers traced themselves up the banister.

Wouldn’t it be easier if I just sat down, maybe on the couch, and waited for her to be done with her workout? When I got to the first landing, I heard that weird clock chime again. Was it seven PM already?

My feet kept moving up the stairs. I guess I’m doing this. More snooping. I found myself at the door to her bedroom, switching on the gentle, overhead can lights. Without her with me, and with the intent I had, I felt a little like an intruder. Even though she and I had spent the last number of nights together here (or had I slept in my office last night? I couldn’t recall), it still felt like I shouldn’t be here right now, doing what I was doing. I felt, in fact, a bit nauseous, and blamed it on the guilt. But nonetheless, here I was. I promised myself I’d only look around for a few minutes.

Of course, I have to admit my first instinct was to look through her underwear drawer. I was, though, able to resist my natural perviness - plus, her old teddy bear was sitting there watching me with its beady black eyes, from over on that chair, and it creeped me out. Instead, I glanced around the room.

On first inspection, it looked like a normal bedroom. Maybe decorated a little young, being set up by her mom with memoirs from Melissa’s earlier years. More pictures of Melissa as a teen. More stuffed animals. Those cheerleading pom-poms. Stuff I’d seen before. I went into the en-suite bathroom.

I’d wanted - call it the physician in me, my medical curiosity - to know what meds Melissa was taking. I know she went to this clinic at Evolution; did they have her on anything? Could she have been prescribed anything - despite what she’d been telling me - to stimulate her recent growth? Maybe there was something I didn’t know, that would explain things. So I opened her mirrored medicine cabinet, a built-in above a sophisticated sink of slick ceramic and natural wood.

Oh, jeez, I immediately lamented, poor Melissa. What I’d found - besides the huge array of cosmetics, creams and lotions -  hadn’t been growth hormones or steroids or anything that would explain any growth. There were medicine bottles, yes, a bunch of them. Aripiprazole, Quetiapine, Clozapine, Iloperidone, Fluphenazine, Haloperidol. Antipsychotics, most of them. Big doses, too. I’d known, of course, that Melissa had some struggles with anger issues, and that her clinic visits involved some therapy sessions. But I hadn’t expected anything as extreme as-

I shut the medicine cabinet. I felt flushed. I might have overstepped.

Maybe I shouldn’t be doing this.

I went back into the bedroom. A green dress lay across the end of the bed, possibly something she’d considered wearing today. A small pile of shoes sat over by the door. There, uh, was a yellow bra folded up on her dresser, and another white one on the floor, looking recently used. The temptation to pick it up and breathe her in was strong. I thought, weirdly, that it might clear my nausea, and though it was tempting to try, with a little struggle I resisted. Her bed was unmade. A small garbage can sat overflowing with tissues. Hm. I never really noticed before but Melissa is kind of a mess, huh?

As I stood next to her curio shelves, her “Jay Shelves”, I couldn’t help but take a look. It was her collection of mementos, of me, of our relationship. I’d noticed this stuff before, and it still struck me as strange. Without her here to distract me and smooth things over it felt, in fact, a bit…creepy. Yes, there was the framed picture of me - cute, that she had that here - but there were also the candles. And the movie stubs, the lipstick-smeared t-shirt of mine. There were briefs, and  tissues (ewww, those were…). I’d let her have a pair of socks; they were up there. The whole thing struck me as really odd. Like a kind of shrine, something a teenage girl might put together for a school crush or a celebrity. I should maybe have been worried, but goddamn me I couldn’t help but find it flattering, even if it seemed more than a bit obsessive. Looking back, I don’t know what was wrong with me. Why did I not see the signs? Honestly it was probably already too late.

My eyes caught on to a small scrapbook crammed full of papers. I slid it off the shelf. It was bound in red leather and had my name written across the front of it. As I opened it several scraps fell to the floor. I cursed as I  squatted to pick them up. There were a few new photos of me: with her, candid, laughing. Another just of me. Another one. Another just of me, this one with a lurid red lipstick mark across it. There were papers, too, and another one of those pamphlets. The papers caught my attention first. She had, on the top of a piece of lined paper, written “Melissa + Jay” inside a bubbly heart. And then, underneath, she’d written a name…over and over and over. I gulped. She was like a school girl picturing us married and she wrote a name over and over again:

‘Jay Monroe’. It was scribbled on every square inch of that notebook paper.

She imagined I’d take her name. And she’d written it a hundred times, maybe more.

“Oh jeez,” I muttered aloud.

Next there was a chart of sorts, also in her handwriting. It had been done over time, the ink was different between many of the entries. It was a list of dates, and a list of my heights. She was charting how much I’d lost and - Jesus - the numbers were striking. The first entry was from back in August just three months ago, when she’d been hired. I’d been 5’11” and she’d logged it in. But then, a series of maybe a dozen dated measurements listed off my gradual decrease in height. The latest entry was - wait, what? Yesterday? When had I been measured yesterday? Had she done it in my sleep?? It said…

…4’9”. Oh my god. What’s wrong with me?

It was shocking, arresting. I mean, I guess I’d known I was under five feet by now, but seeing it all laid out like that, seeing in pen and ink that I’d lost more than a foot in a little under three months made it all too clear. I had a problem, and it was  a big one.

She’d actually drawn a little smiley face next to a couple entries. Like here when I’d first dropped under five feet? My blood, which was already running cold, began to curdle. Yes, it was kinda the style these days for women to be attracted to shorter, weaker, more helpless men. The whole “vulni” thing and all, but this seemed downright…pathological. Yeah, this is weird, I’m weirded out, I thought to myself.

Did she want me to keep shrinking? Yes, I can understand how it could be sexy to her. I mean, dammit, it was a dark, secret,  long-standing fantasy of mine, too, but…did she understand the health implications? Did she understand what it all really meant? Did she really want this to continue? Until I was…until I was..?

Well, let me show you this.

I picked up something else that had fallen out of her scrapbook. Another pamphlet, similar to the ones from downstairs. It seemed like something somewhere between a missive for a shady, unnamed, overseas self-help company, describing a “Program”, and a medical technology advertisement for products in development. It was labeled, on its cover,  “TOP SEKRET!!”  Much of it was actually in Cyrillic but the pictures were disturbing....

Women, tall, some of them muscular. All impossibly busty. A few photos were of couples, with the men looking shriveled and tiny next to their Amazon-class partners. Some standing, seated or - good lord - held in their partner’s hands. Jesus this can’t be real, they had to be doctored. It was one of the final photos, though, that made me shiver.

Ewugh…okay, this was too much. This was too much reality. This was bizarre and terrifying. The pamphlet fell out of my hands as I suddenly became weak in the knees. My vision was swimming and a strong wave of nausea overtook me. If I didn’t do something I might…I might…

wait…

Where’s that bra?

With barely a thought I’d stepped forward towards the bras of hers I’d seen, the yellow one and the white. My world was spinning, and instinctively I was reaching for them. Instead of the neatly-folded yellow one on the dresser, I grabbed the white underwire from the floor. She’d just used that one, my racing, raving thoughts came, It’ll smell more like her.

In an instant I had it up, the huge cup of it over my face, and, with a big gulp of air - Ahhhhhhhh…! -  I breathed it in. Her perfume, the scent of her skin, the now-familiar smell of her breast. The world was dark around me, the slick satin of the white bra cup plastered to my face. My eyes covered and flittering shut, I used both hands to hold it there, and I breathed her in some more. Immediately my stomach settled, and I felt so much better. Ahhhh… I’d barely registered it but at some point my cock had grown huge and hard in my pants and as a deep pleasure overtook me one hand drifted down to-

“What do we have here?” I heard the voice, deep and loud and only several yards away. It startled me and I jumped. My heart skipped a beat as I heard her voice:

“Is someone up here snooping?”

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Inspiration for the pamphlets came from Freddieclegg’s awesome story “Year One”, and of course thanks to RiF for editing