The Copy

[echodeck]

CHAPTER ONE: THE SPECTACLE

She stirred.

He had been watching for minutes already—motionless, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on her perfect, tiny form sprawled across the polished desk surface.

Golden light caught the metallic sheen of the leotard he had chosen for her, its cut and cling deliberate, exaggerated—designed to flaunt. It was obscene how well it fit.

Even curled on her side, she was absurdly small: no bigger than a pencil, barely the length of his hand. Every delicate curve visible—perfectly scaled down, meticulously captured.

His breath was shallow. He hadn’t blinked since she began to stir.

She woke.

At first, she didn’t speak. Instead, her eyes darted wildly, pupils blown wide as her chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow breaths. Her head turned, taking in the vast, alien plain of wood beneath her, the sheer cliff of the monitor beside her, and finally—the enormity of him.

When their eyes met, a visible shudder passed through her tiny frame.

Her hands went instinctively to her body: slender fingers tracing her thighs, waist, chest, as if confirming the impossible. She tried to stand—failed—then scrambled upright on shaky legs, trembling.

“Daniel,” she gasped, her voice impossibly high and sharp, like a bell chime, but ragged with horror, “what… what have you done to me?”

She staggered backward, barefoot, away from his looming face. Her eyes darted upward and all around, desperately seeking a way off the desk, as if sheer terror might somehow conjure an escape.

And then it clicked—he watched the realization dawn behind her eyes.

Her gaze snapped back to him, fury piercing through her fear.

“You copied me,” she hissed, voice rising with each word. “You copied me. Not shrunk—fabricated. You used the scan data… you—”

He smiled faintly, savoring this exact moment.

“I copied her,” he corrected, his voice low but deliberate. “The original.”

Her lips parted, caught by the nuance—and the cruelty—of his phrasing.

“The original…?” she whispered.

He nodded once. Slowly.

“She’ll never know,” he added, leaning forward slightly. His massive form eclipsed the warm desk light, casting her into shadow.

Her face flushed red with a mix of outrage and helplessness. She clenched her fists, shaking visibly, but that only made her seem more precious—more diminutive.

“You—you know what this is,” she snapped, almost laughing through her disbelief. “You knew what that chamber was meant for. You knew what it meant to use it like this. This is a violation, Daniel. A crime.”

His expression barely shifted. Only the slightest tilt of his head acknowledged her accusation.

“Worth it,” he replied, as simply as that.

Her fury sharpened further, her shoulders tensing as she paced back and forth across the expanse of wood, golden fabric flashing under the lamp’s glow.

Her feet made no sound.

“What… what are you going to do with me?” she demanded suddenly, turning to face him directly.

The question hung in the air for a beat too long.

Then he spoke, his tone almost casual, almost fond.

“Keep you.”

Her knees nearly gave out at that—he saw it, the subtle wobble, the way her breath caught in her throat.

But her pride was still intact. She straightened, folding her arms beneath her chest—a gesture that, in this absurd scale, only served to draw more attention to her body.

“You didn’t just want a companion,” she spat, circling again, her tiny bare feet padding softly over the polished wood. “You wanted this. A trophy. A doll. A helpless little thing you can dress up and… and put on display.”

He exhaled slowly, his gaze lingering on the path of her pacing. The indignity that flushed her cheeks, the bite in her voice, her every furious gesture—it was all part of the design.

Her smallness was everything.

“You shrank me into this,” she continued, dragging her hands down the shimmering gold fabric, over the soft swell of her miniature breasts, over her thighs. “This costume—you chose this. This size—you chose this. You wanted me humiliated.”

She glared up at him from the desk’s edge, chest heaving with rage, her hair mussed, sticking to her temples from the heat of her fury.

Her anger washed over him—but her humiliation… that gripped him.

He waited until her breath slowed just enough, until the trembling in her limbs reached that perfect balance between exhaustion and defiance.

Then, softly—almost tenderly—he offered his final, deliberate response:

“I just wanted to see you properly.”

Her reaction—her bitter, outraged silence—was exquisite.

She sat abruptly, folding her legs beneath her with stiff dignity, refusing to retreat further but refusing to perform for him any longer.

Even in stillness, she was a spectacle.

A spectacle he had made.

A spectacle he would watch.

And her rage, her humiliation, her trembling limbs… those too were part of the design.

[Sumguy14]

Wow. I like this. Hope to read more in the future.

[echodeck]

Wow. I like this. Hope to read more in the future.

Thanks!

[echodeck]

CHAPTER TWO: THE ARRANGEMENT

The silence between them was almost sweet.

She sat exactly where he had left her—arms crossed tightly beneath the sculpted swell of her chest, legs folded just so, every inch of her gleaming, furious, perfect.

The gold leotard shimmered in the slanted light from the blinds. It caught the glow exactly as he imagined it would when he chose it for her, when he calibrated her fabrication specs, when he sat here night after night fine-tuning her proportions in the sandbox build.

Daniel stayed still, savoring it.

Not guilt.
Not pity.
But possession.

His fingers twitched on the edge of the chair. Just out of reach. He could almost feel her tiny warmth, her breathless trembling. The miniature tension in her posture.

He reached.

His hand cast a shadow over her so quickly she froze—a golden statuette under a predatory wing. Her tiny body tensed as she rose from her seated pose, taking two cautious steps backward, her feet tapping the wood with soft, delicate sounds that made his pulse quicken.

“Don’t,” she said—small voice, tight with panic.

He paused deliberately, savoring her hope that he might listen, then moved anyway. Slowly. Intentionally.

His thumb and forefinger closed on her side—no force, just pressure. But at this size, pressure was power. She braced against his skin, shoving uselessly. Her doll-sized palms felt hot and soft against the pad of his finger.

“I said don’t,” she hissed.

He didn’t answer. He simply rotated her in place, nudging her shoulder gently until she faced the window—until the leotard caught the light exactly right again. He adjusted her hips next, then tapped her calves into line. Her struggles were feeble at this scale.

“You always thought you were better than me,” he murmured at last, his voice low, flat, casual. But inside, he felt electric. Watching her resist. Watching her humiliation as he casually arranged her limbs, correcting her posture as if she were nothing more than a collectible figure needing adjustment.

Her voice quavered with rage and shame. “You fabricated me,” she snapped. “You used the scan data—you knew exactly what you were doing. You knew. You copied me. Shrunk me. And this—this body—it’s your fantasy. Your twisted little fantasy.”

Every word bounced harmlessly off him.

Her anger didn’t matter.
Her humiliation did.

She felt it now—her vulnerability, the sheer absurdity of her scale against him, wrapped in gold, every movement an unwilling performance under his gaze. He felt his pulse race as she crossed her arms again, turning half away to shield herself from him.

“You didn’t want a companion,” she said bitterly, voice tight with emotion. “You wanted a toy.”

He nodded. Nothing more needed to be said.

With a deliberate patience that made her tremble even more, he pressed her gently into a seated position again. She squirmed as his fingertip guided her shoulder down, curling her legs beside her hips as if arranging a delicate figurine for display.

Her breath came fast, ragged. She froze briefly as he adjusted her knees with a slight touch, angling them to complete the pose.

Her voice cracked as she tried to reclaim some fragment of dignity: “You didn’t just shrink me—you dressed me like this. You chose this outfit. You made me into a fucking ornament.”

He smiled thinly, leaning in close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath waft across her bare thighs.

“And yet,” he said, almost absently, “you’re still you. That was the point.”

His finger traced the air just above her shoulder as if outlining her silhouette, resisting the temptation to touch again—for now.

She looked exquisite, perched there, so small and angry, wrapped in gold, her skin flushed from humiliation and the exertion of struggling against fingers that could flatten her without effort.

He lifted her legs slightly with two fingers, angling them just enough for her golden thigh to catch the light again. He could feel her fury vibrating through her miniature frame.

“I wanted this you,” he said softly. “Not a doll. Not a toy. You. But smaller… easier.”

She spat the word before he could: “Controllable.”

He nodded slowly. “Exactly.”

Her silence after that was a gift. She sat there, trembling, and he took in every detail: the sheen of her golden leotard stretched tight over her chest, the subtle rise and fall of her breath, the way her hair fell across one tiny cheek.

Her pride was still intact—but she couldn’t protect it from him.

Her smallness exposed everything.

She turned her face away finally—shielding herself—but even that refusal was beautiful to him.

“You’ll adjust,” he whispered gently. “I’ll feed you. Keep you warm. You’ll be safe.”

Her voice dropped low and dangerous. “I will never accept this.”

He shrugged faintly as he pushed his chair back and rose to his full height, towering over her, casting her entirely in shadow.

“You don’t have to,” he said quietly, turning away. “You just have to stay.”

And that was it.

Her fury. Her defiance. Her humiliation.
It was all part of the arrangement now.

She was a figure on his desk—gleaming, furious, trembling, and posed exactly as he liked.

And her presence was all he had ever really wanted.

[ensmallen]

Nice. Grabs you right from the beginning.

[echodeck]

Nice. Grabs you right from the beginning.

Thank you so much!

[echodeck]

CHAPTER THREE: REFLECTION

Silence filled the room—thick, heavy, complete.

Daniel’s footsteps had retreated down the hall minutes ago, but his presence lingered. It clung to the air, as tangible as the faint scent of his cologne still lingering, as oppressive as the smooth expanse of the desk beneath her feet. She sat precisely as he had left her: legs folded neatly, hands resting in her lap, posed like an ornament. It felt alien, forced, artificial—a position imposed upon her, one that did not belong to a living, autonomous woman but to an object.

Her skin prickled with awareness, with shame. The leotard—tight, gleaming gold, cut scandalously high on her hips—had tugged awkwardly during his manipulations. It had crept further up, baring the delicate curve where hip met thigh, exposing more of her legs than she ever would have chosen. She tugged at the fabric, trying to pull it down, but there was no “down” left to pull to; it clung stubbornly, a second skin of glinting metallic defiance.

It wasn’t hers.

The realization settled like cold iron. This body, this outfit, this very existence—none of it was truly hers. She was a perfect copy, yes: atom-for-atom identical to the woman who still walked freely somewhere in the world, laughing and working and dressing herself in clothes she had chosen. That woman had a name. A desk. Friends. A career.

She, this seven-inch counterfeit draped in a costume meant to exaggerate and display, had no name now. No identity. No ownership.

Daniel hadn’t stolen her life. He had never intended to give her one.

She stood abruptly and stumbled, her bare feet striking the polished wood of the desk. The surface felt vast and sterile, like a stage without props, except for the looming objects around her—a laptop, a pen, a mug, a coaster—all familiar but wrong in scale, transformed into obstacles.

She walked the desk’s surface seeking—what? An overlooked escape route? But the edge of the desk, when she reached it, was worse than she expected: a precipice into emptiness, several times her own height and utterly unscalable.

Even if she jumped — even if she didn’t break a leg - what then? The floor itself was a wilderness, the distance to the door a trek through a landscape not made for something her size.

Daniel hadn’t locked her in.

He didn’t need to.

The desk was the cage. No bars, no chains. Only the cold simplicity of scale.

She turned slowly and froze. Her reflection met her gaze in the blackened computer monitor, now dark and dormant.

For a long moment, she simply stared—motionless except for the steady rise and fall of her chest.

She almost didn’t recognize herself.

The woman in the reflection was familiar in all the most painful ways: the curve of her jaw, the arch of her eyebrows, the small crease near the corner of her mouth when her lips pressed together in thought. Her posture, even now, carried the subtle tension she knew so well—a slight hunch of her shoulders as if bracing for something.

But at this scale, stripped of context and placed among giant objects on an impossible landscape, she looked… alien. A miniature replica, unmistakably her but utterly out of place.

She leaned closer, inspecting every detail.

There were no differences.

This was exactly how she had appeared the moment she’d stepped into the scanner at work—that single afternoon that now felt both recent and impossibly distant. The slight imperfection in her cuticle on her left thumb was still there. The faint scar on her knee from a childhood fall was present, exactly as it should be. Even the subtle fading of color at the tips of her hair—where the highlights had grown out—was preserved faithfully.

Perfect.

Precise.

Down to the last atom.

It felt, to her mind, like that same day. That same afternoon.

But it couldn’t be.

There had been time in between. Weeks, most likely. She didn’t even know how long she had been suspended in digital limbo before Daniel had printed her.

I missed my birthday, she thought suddenly. A sharp, bitter ache bloomed in her chest. She’d missed drinks with friends, laughter, texts from family.

And then she froze.

No. This is my birthday, she realized. The day she came into existence. The day Daniel chose to bring her into being.

A manufactured birthday. A cruel anniversary.

And while her body was an exact copy, her clothing was not.

This tight, shimmering gold leotard—this lurid, garish thing—had never belonged to her. It clung to her curves like a physical manifestation of his perception. It didn’t just cover her body; it framed it, exaggerated it.

It turned her into something different.

It made her a character—a role, not a person.

A different person.

That was the key. That was the shift.

This wasn’t the way she dressed. This wasn’t how she chose to present herself when she strode confidently through the halls of the company.

But this—this reflection—was how Daniel saw her.

How he had always seen her.

The realization hit with crushing clarity.

She had misread it all: his lowered gaze in meetings, the way he fidgeted with his pen, the way he avoided her direct gaze when she spoke sharply or confidently. She had mistaken it for awkwardness, for insecurity, even shyness.

But it hadn’t been that at all.

It had been this:
A quiet, private act of possession. A rehearsed fantasy that played behind his polite facade—a gaze that had undressed her, redressed her, and resized her long before he ever had the technology to do it for real.

That look she thought she’d glimpsed once or twice—furtive, embarrassed, small—hadn’t been embarrassment at all.

It had been desire. And projection.

This version of her—the one shimmering in gold, legs long and bare, posed helplessly on his desk—was not an accident of circumstance.

It was a manifestation of how he had always imagined her when they were peers.

The costume was the final proof.

He had imagined this leotard long before he ever put it on her body.

The posture, the shine, the exposure—all of it originated in his mind, polished in secret, and now rendered fully, perfectly, exactly.

Her reflection stared back at her:
A miniature woman, gleaming, flawless, exposed.

Not the confident woman who ran meetings and drafted proposals.

Not the real colleague he couldn’t quite meet the gaze of.

But this.

A beautiful object.

A curiosity.

A possession.

She turned slowly in place, watching as the leotard caught the light with every breath she took, every slight shift of her bare shoulders. It sparkled for him—even in his absence, it sparkled.

It was the embodiment of what he had done.

Not simply shrinking her.

Not simply copying her.

But rewriting her—reducing her to something dazzling, viewable, posed.

Her chest tightened, fury boiling beneath the surface. She felt it swelling up, sharp and desperate.

With shaking fingers, she raked her hands through her hair, destroying the last remnants of composure. Her reflection became messy, disordered, ridiculous—and in that absurdity, a small measure of honesty returned.

Then she looked down at the cursed garment clinging to her skin.

The gold leotard.

His choice. His gaze made material.

“Fuck you,” she whispered, the words barely audible but seething with venom.

She grabbed the neckline.

And pulled.

The fabric resisted at first—a synthetic stretch engineered to cling—but her anger lent her strength. She wrenched it downward, and with a sharp, muffled snap, the seam split. The tear raced across the front, stopping just beneath her breast, baring one delicate curve.

Her breath hitched.

Her skin was cool, gooseflesh rising along her arms and legs.

The weight of exposure struck her in the same moment as the rush of adrenaline began to fade.

She stood trembling, the torn garment half-hanging from her shoulders.

Colder now. More vulnerable. More visible.

What have I done?

The room was still. Silent.

But the isolation felt different now. Deeper. More humiliating.

Even alone, she couldn’t escape the fact that this body was designed for his view. That every patch of bare skin, every line of muscle, every trembling breath—none of it belonged to her anymore.

It had been stripped from her the moment she awoke here.

The footsteps returned.

Heavy. Slow. Unhurried.

“No no no—”

She turned, but too late.

The door opened with that casual ease that always seemed to mock her powerlessness, and Daniel entered with a steaming mug in hand, sipping as he crossed the floor.

Then he saw her.

He stopped.

The silence was unbearable.

His eyebrows lifted. A slow, amused smile curled at the corners of his mouth—and then he laughed. A soft, low chuckle that chilled her to the bone.

“Well,” he said, setting the mug down, leaning over to look at her fully. “You’ve been busy.”

Her arms instinctively crossed over her chest. Her shoulders hunched. Her face burned with fury and shame, but her body betrayed her helplessness.

“You really did a number on yourself,” he said, smirking as he took in every detail—the disheveled hair, the half-bared skin, the rip in the gleaming gold.

“Trying out a new look? I have to admit… I like it. A little disheveled. Very real. Very raw.”

She didn’t respond.

He leaned in further, one hand on the desk for balance, the other still cupping his mug.

His breath was close. Warm. Smug.

“I leave you alone for fifteen minutes,” he said, “and you give me this. Honestly? I’m flattered.”

“Go to hell,” she whispered hoarsely.

But he was already turning away, already settling back into his chair. As if she were no more significant than a trinket that had fallen over.

He set down his coffee, flipped open his laptop, and began to type again—keys clicking like distant drums, the fan humming to life.

He spared her one last glance.

Grin widening.

“My new desk pet.”

That name landed like a hammer.

A reminder of what she was now.

Not a person.

Not a woman.

A pet.

A decorative, living thing whose every movement was dictated, controlled—even her defiance reduced to something amusing.

The screen glowed beside her, casting long shadows over the vast expanse of polished wood.

And she sat—silent, exposed, humiliated—realizing with a sick, sinking certainty that this wasn’t just about shrinking her body.

It was about placement.

She was on his desk.

A fixture.

A keepsake.

And he wasn’t going to put her away.

He was going to keep her there.

All day.

All week.

All the rest of her life.

[DocRick]

It would be an interesting twist if she was the actual woman, shrunk down to seven inches and the full size woman was the replica.....or at least Daniel convinces her of that.

[echodeck]

That’d be a cool twist. For this story I want to stick with her being made this way, so shrinking or growing is impossible in this world, but I do have a nice twist ending planned.

[brockdaemon]

His desk pet has shown so much defiance and yet he doesn't spank her once?