The Worship of Small Things

Let Me Be Tiny—And Wanted

There is something holy about being held in a palm.
Not as possession. Not as property. But as offering.

Think of it—your cock, your breath, your trembling want—
cradled like a secret
kept safe
because it is small.

There’s a pulse beneath the myth of more.
An ache for closeness that can’t be reached by being bigger, harder, louder.
No. This is the terrain of less.
Of smaller.
Of nearer.
Of yes, let me be tiny—and still wanted.

Let Me Be Small Enough to Be Known

We don’t talk enough about how size becomes a script.
How “bigger” becomes shorthand for desirable.
Even when the body doesn’t want to dominate.
Even when the soul only craves closeness.

I’ve had lovers who whispered want into my neck, their fingers sliding beneath waistband and ego both.
I’ve watched their eyes soften, not hunger to be filled, but to feel.
To touch all of me—not just the inches that count in porn metrics.

It was in those moments I began to understand what Elias learns with Nico:

“His cock throbbed in Nico’s fist — small, barely filling his grip, leaking already.”
— His Theirs Enough

Not less than.
Just enough.

Smallness as Worship, Not Withholding

To be small—and still worshipped—that’s the deepest kind of undoing.

I remember once, kneeling. My lover’s hands on my face. My body already trembling.
He kissed the crown of me like it mattered.
He stroked me like precision was power.

“You like how small you are in my hand?”
— His Theirs Enough

It wasn’t humiliation.
It was hallowed.

There’s something erotic in being able to fit fully into a moment. Into a hand. Into a gaze that doesn’t need you to be more than what you are.

Not because it wants to degrade you.
Because it wants to hold you.

Intimacy Isn’t Measured in Inches

Let’s talk about what happens when you let go of performance.

When you stop trying to push yourself into archetype.
When you allow your cock, your softness, your size, your everything to just… be.

And you find someone who doesn’t flinch.
Who doesn’t compare.
Who isn’t measuring you against a checklist.

Just this:
Their mouth around you.
Their fingers stroking you like they’ve found something rare.
Their breath saying yes without needing to say a word.

“His cock — barely hard now, flushed at the tip — rested against his thigh.”
— His Theirs Enough

Rested. Offered. Present. Enough.

Desire Doesn’t Belong to the Loud

Sometimes I wonder if the obsession with size is a fear of quiet.
Of intimacy.
Of being looked at slowly.

But the small can be seismic.
The shy can be sacred.
The soft can be sovereign.

To be tiny is not to be toyed with.
It is to be touched in full.
To be chosen not in spite of your smallness—but because of it.

Let that be the new prayer.
Let that be the new worship.
Let that be the truth that undresses us:

Let me be tiny—and still wanted.