Amsterdam.
The cobbled streets, the smell of roasted nuts, and the slow swirl of canal water had felt like a postcard come to life. I had been needing this break. One year into my Frankfurt posting, and not a single real friend. Workdays blurred into nights in my tiny rented flat. So when I saw a cheap train deal to Amsterdam, I booked it without thinking too much. Three days away from code and solitude.
I arrived on a Friday afternoon, the sky gray but not unfriendly. The hotel was modest but clean—just how I liked it. I dropped my backpack and slipped out again, camera in hand, blending into the touristy crowd.
Two nights later, that was my last night in Amsterdam, something changed.
I was strolling past one of the narrower lanes near the Red Light district. Loud music pulsed from clubs where tourists lined up, giggling, glassy-eyed. It made me a bit nervous. I was never good with nightlife. I was about to turn back when I saw her.
She was standing near the corner of a club, shivering slightly even in her silver sequined outfit that looked like it belonged to someone else’s dream. Her tall frame, strikingly graceful despite the discomfort on her face, made her impossible to ignore. High cheekbones. Ebony skin glowing under the amber streetlight. Her eyes flicked to mine—desperate, frightened, but oddly calm. And for a moment, it felt like time halted.
I paused, unsure if I was misreading the situation.
She took a tentative step forward and spoke, softly.
“Please... can you help me?”
Her name was Nia.
She spoke in a low, dignified voice, explaining how she had come to Amsterdam months ago with a man who promised her modeling gigs. The moment they arrived, he introduced her to a middle aged woman and vanished. She was too ashamed to go to the embassy or her family back in Detroit—how could she tell them she’d ended up being forced to dance at clubs?
“And now,” she whispered, eyes moist, “they want more than dancing.”
Then with a desperate tone in her voice, “I want to get away from here. Can you please help me?” Her eyes were pleading.
I felt a lump rise in my throat. She looked at me—this small, awkward man in a puffer jacket—like I was the first real person she’d seen in weeks.
Without thinking, I offered, “Come with me. You can hide in my hotel room. I leave for Frankfurt tomorrow very early in the morning. You can come too if you want to get away from your employer or agent or whoever you want to get away from.”
She blinked, stunned. “Why would you help me?”
I swallowed. “Because no one should go through this. And because... I know how loneliness feels.”
Her lips quivered. “Thank you, short man.”
I blushed instantly. “I’m not that short.”
She chuckled. “You are. But I like it. Makes me feel like a giant goddess.”
That was the first time she picked me up. Right there, on the edge of that damp Dutch alley. She leaned forward and—before I could react—scooped me up in a cradle carry, like I weighed nothing.
“Hey! What are you—”
“You saved me. I get to hold my hero.”
I squirmed in her arms, my feet dangling, my face burning with embarrassment as a few passersby giggled at the sight. She was so strong, so sure. Yet her touch was gentle—almost protective.
“Put me down,” you muttered, trying not to smile.
“Only once we’re safe,” she said, and started walking, carrying me boldly down the lane.
I insisted, “If you carry me cradling me in your arms like this, you are inviting more attention. People are staring at us. It will not be good for your safety since you are running away from your agents.”
She understood. Put me down gently. Then she put an arm around my shoulders and started walking. Even without heels she was so tall that my head did not even reach her shoulders. It seemed as if she had tucked me under her armpits.
I couldn't help but ask, “How tall are you ?”
She smiled sweetly down from her magnificent height and said, “6 feet 1, on barefoot. And I'm 90 kilos. That's why I prefer not to wear heels. Guys get intimidated by my huge figure. And you shorty, how small are you...?” She teased.
I replied shyly, “I am 5 feet 3 inches and 64 kgs.”
“Ohh so cute, such a sweet little guy!” She ruffled my hair playfully. “So, what do you do, my little man ? And where are you from? I find a strange accent in your English.”
I told her about myself. That I'm from India. A Software professional on an onsite posting in Frankfurt, Germany. Just came here less than a year back. My project is for 3 years or more, if it gets extended. I'm 40 but not married yet. My parents are back in India. I'm an introvert, no real friends as such. Also that I am presently on a weekend trip to Amsterdam for 3 days, taking one extra day's leave.
“Oh wow ! You are a Software Engineer, an intelligent guy huh.”
We had reached my hotel. I took her to my room. It's a matter of one night only. My train from Amsterdam Centraal is at 5:54 am, reaching Frankfurt around 11 am.
I ordered some food from room service while Nia was freshening up. She had managed to smuggle out her belongings in a bag, which she had already kept hidden at a nearby shop.
While having our dinner, Nia told me about herself. She is from a poor
African-American family with three more siblings. Her father left her mother for another woman. Nia is 28 years old. After her father left she was desperate to earn a living for herself and her mother. That's when she got cheated by a guy who brought her here with the promise of a good modelling assignment in Amsterdam. The rest she had already told me earlier.
It was already late. We had to get up early to catch the train. She wanted to lie on the couch, but she didn't fit there, she was way too tall. So I insisted she take the bed and I managed the next few hours till morning, on the sofa. I could easily fit in there with my small height and size.
Next morning, I was back in my small but cosy apartment in Frankfurt—with Nia.
My landlord didn’t care as long as rent was paid.
I said, “I'll work from home today. So let's take some rest now.”
I gave her my bed and took the couch, but she wouldn’t allow that for long.
“No, baby man. You’re not sleeping on that uncomfortable couch.”
She pulled me up easily—her strength shocking every time—and sat on the bed with me in her lap, like I was a doll. She patted my head. “Such a tiny thing. I could rock you to sleep.”
I covered my face. “I’m 40. I work in tech. You can’t rock me like a baby.”
“Watch me,” she said with a smirk—and did exactly that.
From then on, life became a little absurd and a lot magical. Every morning before I left for work, she would pick me up over her shoulder like a fireman-carry, spin me around playfully, and plant a kiss on my forehead.
Evenings were spent cooking together—well, she cooked, and I peeled potatoes while sitting in her lap. She teased me endlessly.
“Look at you, Mr. Software Professional, sitting like a baby in his big woman’s lap. Aren’t you ashamed?”
“Very.”
“Good. I like my shy man light and squishable.”
I still can’t believe how we ended up like this—me, a 40-year-old Indian software guy, 5’3”, 64 kilograms, introverted and solitary, suddenly living with a stunning, towering African-American woman named Nia in my Frankfurt apartment.
She’s 28. Six feet one inch tall. Ninety kilos of smooth, graceful strength. Big-boned but so feminine, with curves that flowed into power. Her high cheekbones gave her a regal aura, and her strong arms made me feel... well, tiny.
I remember the first evening back in Frankfurt after we escaped Amsterdam. I had barely taken off my shoes when she turned to me with a sly smile.
“You’re back in your little cave now, tiny man,” she teased.
“I wouldn’t call it a cave,” I muttered.
She walked over slowly and looked down at me, practically a full head and a half taller. Her shadow fell over me like a canopy.
“You’re really short,” she whispered, tilting her head down as if it were a revelation.
“I’m average where I come from.”
She snorted. “And I’m a giraffe, apparently.”
Before I could react, she bent forward and—whoosh—I was in her arms again, cradled like a child.
“Hey! Warn me next time!”
She laughed. “I love how helpless you get when I pick you up. You go all stiff like a cat in a bathtub.”
“You make me sound ridiculous.”
“You’re adorable.”
She walked around the apartment with me cradled against her, one arm under my thighs, the other wrapped around my back, her warm chest pressing against my side. I felt... weightless. And weirdly… safe.
“You’re... really strong,” I murmured.
She paused and looked down at me. “Yeah?”
I nodded. “I mean, I’m not that light.”
She raised a brow. “You’re 64 kilos, baby. I’m 90. I’ve carried heavier laundry baskets.”
I turned red. “Still... I admire it. Your strength. Your height. It’s... it's beautiful.”
Her eyes softened. She leaned down and kissed my forehead.
“You feel protected when I carry you?”
“More than I’ve ever felt in my life.”
She held me tighter and whispered, “Then I’ll carry you as long as you want.”
One Saturday, we were heading to the nearby Rewe supermarket when I tripped over a curb and stumbled hard. My ankle twisted, and I let out a small cry before falling onto my hands.
Nia was beside me in an instant.
“You okay, baby?” she asked, kneeling.
“I—I think I twisted it.”
She didn’t wait. She stood up, bent forward, and before I could even protest, I was up—draped over her broad shoulder like a sack of rice.
“Wait, wait—Nia! This is embarrassing!”
She smirked. “You’re my injured little man. Let me take care of you.”
“I’m 40!”
“Exactly. And you are also small and weak. So I'll take care of you.”
I could feel people staring. A few smiling. One kid actually clapped.
With one hand holding me securely against her shoulder and the other carrying the grocery bag, she marched back to our apartment, all six-foot-one of her in black tights and a flowing hoodie, while I bobbed like a helpless doll over her.
“You know,” I grumbled, “this is undignified.”
“You know,” she replied, swatting my rear playfully, “you are cute and I love carrying you.”
I buried my face in my hands, mortified but secretly thrilled.
That evening, she sat on the couch, and I limped over to sit beside her. But she patted her lap.
“Come here.”
“Nia...”
“Now.”
So I crawled up into her lap, sideways at first. She adjusted me easily, pulling me fully across her thighs until I was nestled like a child. Her arms came around me again, one hand gently stroking my back.
“I feel ridiculous,” I whispered, face red.
“Do you?”
“A little.”
“But you’re smiling.”
I looked up at her. Her huge form made me feel small, but in the best possible way. Like I didn’t need to be strong for once. Like I could just exist and be held.
“I’m... falling for you,” I said.
Her eyes sparkled.
“Oh yeah?”
I nodded. “You’re strong, warm... protective. I’ve never had someone lift me like I was nothing—and make me feel like I was everything.”
She didn’t reply. Instead, she tightened her arms around me and rocked me gently.
“I want to be your safe place,” she whispered. “Your goddess, if you’ll let me.”
“You already are,” I said, my head resting against her chest.
We stayed like that for a long time—me, 5’3”, 64 kg, feeling like a feather in her 6’1”, 90 kg arms. My body curled in her lap, my pride forgotten. I wasn’t a lonely software engineer anymore. I was hers.
And she was mine.
It was a Friday evening, and I came home late from work—exhausted, stiff from meetings, and a little damp from the rain. The lights were dim. Soft jazz floated in from the Bluetooth speaker. I stepped in and froze.
Candles.
Dozens of them. Glowing gently around our little living room.
And in the center, on the couch, sat Nia. All 6 feet 1 inches of her wrapped in a deep burgundy satin nightgown, her thick, long legs crossed, her afro hair up in a loose bun. A glass of wine rested in one hand.
She looked at me like I was dessert.
“Baby’s home,” she said, voice low and smooth. “Hungry?”
“I... what’s all this?”
“I cooked for you,” she said. “And I’m going to feed you. But you’re not sitting at the table tonight.”
She patted her lap.
I blinked. “Nia...”
“Come on. You know it relaxes you.”
And so I did.
I crossed the room, and like clockwork, she scooped me up in her strong arms, easily cradling my 5’3”, 64-kilo frame and slowly easing me onto her lap. My legs dangled over one of her thick thighs, my back reclined against her soft arm. She adjusted me like I was a plush toy, positioning my head under her chin.
“You always fit so perfectly here,” she whispered. “Like you were made for my lap.”
She lifted a spoonful of the creamy pasta she’d made, and fed me slowly, smiling as I chewed.
“This is really good,” I murmured.
“I know. And so are you.”
She kept feeding me, humming as she rocked me gently side to side. Her palm never stopped stroking my back. She even kissed the top of my head between spoonfuls. It was tender. Comforting. My cheeks burned a little from the intimacy, but I never wanted to leave that lap.
Until the very end, when she gently tilted my chin up, looked into my eyes and said, “You look full. And warm. And squishy.”
Then she picked me up again—cradled me, walked to the bedroom, and whispered, “But not sleepy yet, are you?”
The next morning, she declared it was my “spa day.”
“You work too hard. You carry the weight of your whole team. But in here?” she pointed to the bathroom, already warm with scented steam, “I carry you.”
She undressed me gently, her touch reverent and soft. I tried not to shiver when her fingers traced my shoulders.
“You’re so... fragile,” she whispered. “All this tension in this tiny little body.”
“I’m not that tiny,” I protested half-heartedly.
“Shhh,” she said, lifting me.
She held me with both arms under my back and knees…cradle-style and stepped into the bathtub with me. I couldn’t believe how easily she handled me. Her 90-kg frame made mine feel like a child. She sat in the tub first, her legs stretched out, and gently settled me into her lap, my back against her chest, my whole body submerged between her thighs. My head rested in the crook of her big tight bosoms. It was heavenly.
She started with my shoulders. Rubbing, massaging. Every knot slowly dissolved under her strength. I groaned softly as her hands moved lower, across my chest, my arms, my stomach.
“Relax, baby,” she whispered in my ear. “Let mommy take care of you.”
That word made my heart skip.
“You’re so safe in here. And I’m not letting go.”
I turned my face into her neck and closed my eyes. I didn’t care anymore how it looked. She could’ve rocked me like that in public and I wouldn’t have protested.
By the end of the bath, I was boneless in her arms. She dried me gently, lifted me again, and carried me to bed like I was her child—only the look in her eyes was anything but maternal now.
( To be continued…)
