As you know, my friend Aborigen runs writing contests. It is now time to vote for the theme that will dominate the next contest. I want to write stories about giant asses… and I don’t mean people of incredibly large sizes that behave unseemingly—I’m talking about that star-shaped enclosure surrounded by soft, embracing flesh, found on just about everyone’s body. I also want to write about tiny butts because they are adorable.
If you feel differently, vote for “butts” anyway because there is a future where I rise above the clouds and rule this Earth with a tender, loving fist…
…unless you vote for anything besides “butts”. If that’s the case your horizon will darken, the air you breathe will spiral away from you in a violent vacuum, your mind will break as you see that shape—my shape—shatter the earth as I come closer. The last thing you’ll hear will sound like thunder but will be, “So you voted for stories about pee-filled balloons? That was unwise.”
If you’ve ever been sad, heartbroken because you lost a pet, a part of your family, a part of you, and when you manifested that sadness someone despicable around you said, “It was just an animal,” know that I understand your anger is justified. Such a lack of empathy is unforgivable. This morning I sat up after having slept exactly zero minutes, grabbed my bottle of vodka, and downed four shots in quick succession. When I felt my heartbeat slow down a tad, I grabbed my shovel, my heavy gloves, and my pick, and I dug a deep hole in my yard. Once that was done, I fetched my beautiful, beloved, wonderful cat’s lifeless body, and placed it in that hole, only a few feet away from the grave of the first cat I ever lost.
She was also wonderful, beloved, beautiful, and when I still cried about her loss, someone without a heart told me impatiently that she was “just an animal”. Wrong, fucker. She was a grumpy cat with a funny face that was loyal and bossy, and extremely vocal about it. Her meows were operatic, and she made an art out of catching a bird midleap. She was not “just an animal”. And the cat I buried this morning was not “just an animal” either. She was afraid of everyone but me, her meows were the squeakiest I’d ever heard in my life, and she thought my boy cat was her mom. She liked to eat moths, she gifted me half a bird or half a snake on several occasions (apparently it was clear to her I had no idea how to hunt and she was afraid I’d starve), and she was family.
He couldn’t believe he’d been caught, not after a lifetime of hard-won freedom, of narrow escapes, of costly solitude. Arrogance. That’s what’d done him in. He’d imagined himself undetected after years of living in her walls, of waiting patiently until she was gone, or asleep, or showering, or watching TV. He’d thought nothing of the subtle changes… that time she came back unexpectedly after leaving for her yearly beach vacation. Five years he’d been in her house without a single incident, five years of knowing her schedule—and her— by heart, and that last time she’d come back after he’d heard her car rumble away. He always waited thirty minutes after she left the house for an extended period of time, to make sure she was gone before he left his hole in the wall, and when he finally emerged from concealment, she’d been standing there.
He’d frozen then, thinking he’d been seen, his hand flying to the blade he always carried with him. She might kill him easily, but he’d give her a scar that would force her to think of him every time she looked at her hand. Instead, she’d peered down at some papers, old mail, bills she kept in the mail basket, shifting them until she appeared to find what she needed. She’d then left without looking at him, even though he was sure he’d been within her field of vision. He’d run to his hole and had waited a whole day before he stirred from it, and the following two months he’d been riddled with anxiety, extra cautious, depending on his well-stocked pantry rather than adventurous trash-can spelunking expeditions, curtailing his staring sessions during her showers down to a frustrating zero. He’d also checked her Internet browser history and expenditures to make sure she hadn’t bought a cage, or clothes for tiny people, or anything that would indicate knowledge of his presence. There’d been nothing, so he’d begun to consider relaxing a bit.
Maybe that’s why she caught him. Maybe he should’ve checked her receipts more carefully and realized she’d been purchasing materials for a trap, but there was nothing she’d searched online that gave him cause for alarm. Still, he’d been caught. He’d just finished killing a rat that had squeezed its greasy body under the back door, where she’d removed the worn gap seal and had yet to install a new one. He’d stood there, eyeing his kill, recalling days not too long ago when the first thing he did was tear into the still warm flesh and devour the heart. He was spoiled now, grown lazy in her warm home, a little thick in the middle from eating up her carbohydrate-rich crumbs. Disgusted with himself, he got down on his knees and split the rat’s skin with his blade, finding its heart, which gave a couple of pumps when he sliced it free and brought it to his snarling mouth. And then… darkness.
He woke up slowly, his head swimming, his nostrils filled with the overpowering scent of something familiar. Nausea coiled inside of him, but he suppressed it and forced his eyes to open, regretting his decision immediately. Over him loomed a woven canopy, and he recognized the smell right away. Bamboo, from the backyard. He’d harvested some fresh shoots in the past to make a cot that still stood solidly in the hole that was his home inside this house. He’d cut them with his own blade. His blade! He reached for it and found nothing but fabric. His belt was gone and with it the weapon he carried everywhere. Now he sat up and felt as though he’d been punched in the gut. His lips moved as he tried to scream, but all they produced was a slow, dry gasp. Before him, encompassing every inch, every foot at the other side of the cage bars was her face, closer than it’d ever been, closest to him than he had ever allowed anyone her kind to be.
“Hi,” she said, her breath blasting him with warm air, his curly hair pulling back and away from his face in a dance that stopped almost as soon as it began. He scrambled backward, not knowing he looked just like a little beach crab to her at that moment, and not knowing that’s what made her laugh goodnaturedly at his useless effort to move away from her. When his back hit the opposite side of the cage, he stared at her and tried to scowl. His face felt so frozen in astonishment he almost wanted to knead anger into his features with his fingers. Instead, he cleared his throat and swallowed hard before speaking with what he wanted to be a firm tone.
“Stop laughing at me and let me go this very moment,” he squeaked, instead. That seemed to stop her giggling, but the vacuuming gasp that replaced them only increased his distress.
“You are amazing,” she whispered, a gale of minty heat swirling all around him and then past him, and then another when she spoke again. “I’d never seen one of you this closely. Not once. Not until now.”
“I don’t believe you! Let me go, and I swear you’ll never see me again. I won’t even pack my things. I’ll just walk right out and never ever come back.”
“Things? You have… things?” Her face moved closer to the fragrant bars. “What things are these you have? Are some of your things my things?”
He whimpered in horror, knowing that everything he owned he’d stolen from her. Everything but the blade he was sure she now had, and a loincloth that had eventually turned to shreds, replaced now with tiny clothes he’d sewn himself from the fabric of old panties and bras she discarded.
“Yes- I mean, no. Just my knife. Give me back my knife!”
“Absolutely not. So you can slice into my palm?”
“Why would I do that? You’re not touching me.” He felt regret at his words, even when knowing that what then took place would have happened no matter his response. Something out of his range of sight shifted like mountains turning in their sleep, and her hand rose over the horizon, fingers stretched like sunbeams in his direction. She pinched the cage door’s latch open, and the space that contained him was instantly reduced to nearly nothing, occupied now by her hand. He screamed and rose to his feet to run somewhere, anywhere but here, only making it easier for her hand to grab him. Wordless shrieks, high-pitched and following the rhythm of his fists as they pounded on the wall of her thumb, her forefinger to no effect. He tried to turn in place, using the softness of his skin to try to slither out of her hold, having never been held by a petal-soft hand as strong as iron, not knowing there was nothing he could do to escape her grip. A passenger all the way to her face, there were no bars between them now as she held him so close to her face he could almost touch it. Horrified at the impulse to hold out his hand until he could feel the tip of her nose, he begged.
“Please, don’t eat me!”
A roomful of air somewhere below expanded and contracted as she laughed silently. Or nearly so. More air, quite moist, bathed him as the corners of her eyes crinkled. He looked at both of them, his head moving from side to side and then his gaze dropped point blank to the lightning-white rows of teeth that shone in front of him. He felt stupid now, thinking of his knife. It was nothing compared to these enormous blades. They would slice and dice him until he was a mass of unrecognizable red. He made himself stare at them. He had screamed and begged, but he wasn’t going to close his eyes. He was going to make her look at him as she killed him.
“Eat you? Such a silly little thing. The thought never crossed my mind. Why should I eat you? Are you delicious?” Her middle and ring fingers held him in place to the center of her palm, but she extended her pinkie finger and curled it under his leg, forcing it to straighten before him, towards her mouth. Something snapped inside of him, and he became enraged as he realized she was going to make him watch her eat him. He let loose a string of words in his language and hers, terrible insults, the most vulgar names reserved for one’s worst enemies. In response she pinched his thigh between her digits firmly, and smiled brightly as her lips spread, saliva popping against her gums as her mouth grew wider, her tongue emerging to welcome his foot. He tried to kick that wide swath of pink flesh away, only to see the upper row of her teeth come down to pin him, shin deep, against it. He stopped saying words and started howling, expecting to see, to feel his leg split into two pieces when she severed it with a single bite. Instead, he felt suction as her tongue pulled away, her teeth clamped him firmly… but instead of biting, she licked. And licked. Again, and again. And a moan as deep as the center of the Earth traveled from her chest to her mouth, plucking him until his ears rang. Yet he screamed until his throat was raw.
Her head cocked a little so she could turn one ear closer to him, and his lower body twisted in place, dragged by the hold of her teeth as his leg stretched too much, enough to pull his groin painfully. Pain, he thought. That was pain. What happened before was not painful. His screams stopped, now nothing but dry heaves as she continued to play with his lower leg like it was candy. Her moaning stopped as well, and he dared to move his eyes away from her mouth to look up and see her open her eyes. Why had she closed them? With part of him still inside of her, she hm’d quickly, and spit him out.
“I don’t know. You don’t seem very tasty to me.”
He was quite hoarse but still had enough voice to say, “Your kind eats our kind all the time. Don’t pretend you don’t.”
“Have you ever seen… how long have you been here?”
“Tell me the truth. It’s better that way.”
“In those five years, have you ever seen me eat any of your kind?”
“No, but maybe when you go out to eat…” he trailed off, knowing from looking at her every receipt that she never ordered those dishes when she went out to eat.
“I don’t. Some of my friends do, but I can’t stand to watch them eat when they do. I’ve never eaten one of you. I wouldn’t.”
He only stared at her for a moment before he croaked again, “Please let me go now. You’re not going to eat me, so please don’t kill me.”
“Oh, I don’t know about not eating you now… I’m just not sure. Your meaty leg is quite fuzzy, but it’s only your leg. Maybe the rest of you is more flavorful. Perhaps in broth? With some wine, I think. Red… yes, red wine.”
He never saw it coming, her other hand. It reached him suddenly, and two of its thick prongs met him below her firm hold. He thought to scream again and instead watched in shock as two polished fingernails, as shiny as mirrors, pinched the fabric of his underpants, the only garment she had not removed from him. When she began to tug gently at the fabric, he found his frog-like voice again.
“What- what are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
“It- uh, it looks like- Hey, stop! No!”
She ignored him, pulling slowly at the fabric like she was peeling the film off a boiled egg until the waistband bumped over his groin, exposing it fully as it slid past his legs. She half-moaned, half-grunted a very dirty word.
“I’m going to really taste you now, and see if there’s any truth to how delicious you are. If I don’t like what ends up in my mouth, I’ll let you go… but if I like it, I’ll keep you forever. Is that clear?”
He didn’t really get a chance to answer. Not for a few hours, anyway.
This ain’t no Project Myriad. Let’s just get that off your chest. That work is one of my favorites, and I’ve often thought of writing my own set of quick scenes. I even picked out a name I stole for it, but heck if I remember what it was. As soon as I recall I’ll rename the series because I can’t possibly call myself a serious size/fetish/kink writer of close encounters of the speculative kind, and name one of my works “clusterfluff”. Can I? Nah.
This is an exercise in inspiration. I’m trying to jumpstart my writing. The deadline for my #GentleApril18 stories is stalking closer, and I’ve written very little of my story/es. Ideas are not the problem. I have the stories in my head. It’s the sitting down and shoving them into this reality that’s proving problematic.
“So, we’re the two remaining survivors.”
“Yes. Everyone and everything else is dead.”
“Everyone except the giantess, of course.”
“She’ll be coming for us too, you know?”
“I know. Any ideas on what to do?”
“We have to kill her.”
“How do you propose we do that? We don’t have any weapons and you are extremely small.”
“I use to be a chef, back when the world was whole. I think I’ll make her a delicious pot of poisoned turtle soup.”
* * *
“Honey, I forgot to tell you that my parents are coming to visit today.”
“That’s great! I look forward to finally meeting them. We’ve been together a few months now, after all.”
“Yes, well… they’re very traditional, and I think they imagined I’d choose someone my size.”
“Then I suppose I better not tell them how we met.”
“They’ve lived in isolation and wouldn’t understand you anyway. They still speak the Old Tongue and not a word of English. It’s so funny, you’ll like it. I’ve been told it sounds like a rat chittering.”
“A-a rat… chittering, you said? Sweetheart, do your parents know what a mousetrap looks like? last night I was in the kitchen and I heard these squeaky sounds…”
* * *
“Is this your idea of a first date? Hazmat suits and an expedition to the Deadlands?”
“You said you like science!”
“There’s nothing sciencey about this place! And it’s creepy. I’ve read here’s where the giants finally came to rest.”
“Yes, thousands of years ago, after they leveled the Earth quenching their lust for blood until nearly every human being was gone. Then they went to sleep.”
“And died. All of them. Can we go now? I’m hungry.”
“I’m about to make you food… but not before I tell you that they’re not dead. They’re only asleep, and only the blood of a descendant killed in sacrifice will awaken them.”
“Then I’m glad there aren’t any of those giants left to awaken them.”
“It’s a recessive gene. One you carry.”
* * *
“Good Goddess, I hate this job.”
“Hey, it could be worse. Much worse.”
“I don’t see how.”
“You could be working upstairs. Anyone around here that wants to make a good impression overhears you, reports you, and bam you’re gone.”
“You wish. No, gone. To work in the other mine.”
“Well, it sounds better than this one!”
“You know Boss loves euphemisms, right?”
“Right. Kinda like we’re ‘foot soldiers’ and this isn’t really cheese.”
“Exactly, so keep your trap shut or you’ll end up carting out heavy loads from somewhere that isn’t really a chocolate mine.”
* * *
“Now I wish you’d turned me into soup.”
“And I wish she’d kill us instead of this.”
“Why did you have to joke around? Mister funny guy, started dancing and carrying on the moment she popped into view from behind that mountain.”
“What would you have done? I hadn’t fixed you into soup yet, or found a pot, or a source of heat, or enough poison to kill her. It was a delay tactic.”
“And you slowed her down long enough to amuse her. Now you have to live in a house she built on my shell, and I have to carry it–and you–everywhere.”
“Just… be quiet. And let me know when you find something poisonous.”
“She’s always watching. And laughing. You can’t think your plan is still workable.”
“No, the poison is for us.”
He was sitting in his living room the way everyone else did on Sunday nights. Nothing good on TV, nothing he wanted to stream, the buzz of every swig he had swallowed conjuring numbness from directional thinking. He was grateful for that. Focusing now would have been unwise. When he aimed his thoughts, they invariably hit the target, and he worried himself into a sleepless night. He couldn’t do that tonight. Tomorrow was going to be hell at work. Instead, he filled his lungs with calming air, conjured up his Music-For-Jerking-Off playlist, almost hearing imagined disapproval in Alexa’s slightly robotic voice when she fired it up and Paul Ferguson’s sick beats bathed the walls with the right rhythm. His groin tingled, and he wished he could command his Echo to make real his heart’s desire at that moment, but a pathetic imitation on Pornhub would have to do.
With one fingertip, he started scaling down the wall of bookmarks on the screen, drinking in every cum-filled memory, trying to feel something for any of those links, looking for punctuation in his arousal, knowing the scenes and scripts by heart, his unforgiving penis growing harder as he sighed and picked a video that turned him on and revolted him at the same time. The facesitting woman beginning to grind a hapless man’s face on the screen looked like she might be handicapped, but he loved the way she lingered when it was right, just after the face cushion under her crotch began to squirm for air, just before she went in for the kill.
He pulled down his boxers and lassoed his cock with one hand when he felt the echoes of a tremor traveling through the ground. He first assigned it to Keane’s maudlin tune bounding from the speakers, replacing the moans and screams muted on the TV screen, but the exteroceptive caress invading his every cell told him how different that beat was. Like an earthquake trying to play the drums, savant in energy, and somehow aimed at him.
Fuck, she’s back, he thought, horrified. His blood ran cold everywhere but to his cock, where he watched a treacherous five-drop spill reveal a truth his body knew but he fought as he pulled up his waistband and waited. She was coming for him. He knew that just as well as every man before him had known he was chosen for the night. His heart pounded so hard it made him nauseated, but not a single drop of vodka left his stomach as the tremors grew, and his house danced to the music of her massive feet digging into asphalt, cracking it like saltines crumbled into soup.
Closer, closest now, so close the framed print on the wall of a woman embracing Earth jumped off the wall in a suicidal leap that shattered the glass that had encased it. From the speakers, “Welcome To The Boomtown” leaned into his ears like an I-told-you-so. When the booming assault on cracker-like streets stopped in front of his house, he could do nothing except sink deep into the back of his couch, David & David scoring the soundtrack of his roof as she began to tear it away from the rest of his house, the way women open a music box containing a precious ring.
Plaster, insulation, splintered wood rained down on him, the power to his house cut off and replaced by the power of her warmth, her face barely visible in the sudden darkness as the beginning of “Dark Side of the Gym” cut off suddenly. No more light but what traveled from blocks away, her shins heedless of power lines as they always were when she made one of her occasional grand entrances. There would be no sirens, no warning shots, no cavalry. The city knew better than to interfere when the moon filled with her shape, and the air everyone breathed had a gender and a size.
She breathed him in, almost an insurance of what he was. He looked up and felt probed by nostrils he could not quite distinguish in the obliterating silhouette of her head as she bent in and looked down at him, holding the severed roof of his house away from the rest of the house, now a hinged box, he the treasure. He made himself breathe as well, inhaling every hormone wafting away from her like steam from a boiling pot. His groin was instantly brought back to life.
“May I help you?” he offered weakly.
“Maybe,” she thundered, sky-shaped.
“Tell me what to do.”
“Don’t lie to me. Ever. And don’t look away.”
“Not even white lies. And I wouldn’t dream of looking away.”
“How long do I have?”
“What do you mean?”
“You are going to collect me and kill me like you killed the rest. How long before I die?”
“Is that what you think I do?”
“Uh… well… the men you take, they are never seen again…”
“And you think they are dead?”
“I give life. I’ve never done anything differently.”
He didn’t think that was an answer, but there was a finality to her words he didn’t want to join.
“What may I give you?”
He heard her smile, saliva clicking against the inner wall of her lips as they pulled back, a gleam of moon bouncing off those white boulders dozens of feet away, and hitting him square in the chest.
“Give me everything.”
He stood then, never breaking what he hoped was eye contact, his legs unsteady as his neck craned in her direction.
“I’m yours. Take me, giantess.”
Her arm moved then, tendons and muscles moving as it contracted to bring her hand over the edge of the wall, a shapely darkness that pushed warm air in his direction before it arrived, grasping his form, lifting it off his carpeted floor with effortless grace, five massive lengths curving to embrace him in an instant orgy, pushing him forward and back in a dance as old as time before he was fully encircled in flesh.
He felt himself lift off, a rocket into space, her fist the ship that held him at just the right tightness, the kind that screams a warning between a crushing death and a grip of ownership. He felt possessed. He was no longer his own self. He belonged to those fingers, that hand, that arm, and the nature that dictated them. Into the grooves of her meaty palm, feeling them like lips, he deposited kiss after kiss and began to sing music that was just for her ears.
Today has been both a great day and a shitty day. On the plus side, I’m enjoying all your answers to my Consent poll and received a comic book I’ve been waiting to read for months. I looked for a proper wrap dress I can wear to the opera and I didn’t have any luck but found a comfy dress I can wear to the store, and they have it in my color. My cats are well, my son is asleep, and I’m sitting here calming my upsetness with lovely streams of sound flooding my ears, and with a modest dosage of vodka, and some writing. A perfect way to end a roller-coaster of a day.
As you know from the detailed Undersquid files you’ve memorized, I’m keeping track of every country that continues to fail to visit my blog. At some point, there were fifty-two of them, which became fifty-one countries sometime in November of last year. On March 21st of this year, Turkmenistan was added to the list of countries currently safe from my terrible rage.
What makes someone from there visit my blog? I hope it’s a deep affection for giant women, or tiny men, or giant and tiny anythings, to be honest. I keep waiting for someone from the Vatican to visit and spend forty-five minutes reading all posts related to ownership, but no such fortune so far.
I’m patient. I’m waiting. All your countries is belong to me. In the meantime, welcome to the fold, Turkmenistan. Giantesses may roam free there, and endless numbers of men will now be shrunken there as well. Alright, I’m done here. I’m going to go enjoy my light buzz and go work on my shrinking formula. I don’t think I’ve tried adding vodka to it. What? I have? You lie. Don’t lie to me. People that lie to me don’t fare very well in the future squidtopia that will encompass the land like so many firm tentacles.
I’ve thought about the matter of consent many times, and in many ways. You, my readers, pretending you can’t read the neon signs between the lines, have also asked me what I think about consent. I’d started creating a poll on my SurveyMonkey account, but abandoned it as I got busy doing other things. It’s time I asked these questions, and it’s time I told you were I stand.
There you are, a person in this world, minding your own business. You got up this Saturday morning, nursed a hangover maybe, had breakfast with the family or alone, and set off to have a productive day. It was going so well.
But then you went out, and were walking back to your car or reading the ingredients in that jar of pickled pig’s feet (in which case you deserve everything coming your way), when you feel darkness envelop you–or if imagined by me, a beautiful violet light–and you lose yourself in it. When awareness returns, you find yourself changed to enormous proportions, or more to the purpose of this blog entry, turned into a shrunken person/robot/furry/ghost/keyfob.
But wait, there’s more. This is no regular shrunken hero’s quest, there are no tasks connected to attaining spiritual growth, you will not meet a wise old cricket that will teach you rad fighting moves and telekinesis so that you may defeat a formidable foe. Nope.
All that’s there is a much larger someone that wants to touch you, and the poll I created refers to how you feel about those advances. Some of you roam that tiny world on the warpath, undefeated in battle against those my size. Sometimes you don’t even die, or at least have super strength that helps you keep big ones at bay.
Others live in a (mostly) peaceful world where they have the same rights as those of last get size, or at least it’s thought that they should have some rights. Right? I mean, we can’t just go around killing tiny people, stepping on them or popping them in our mouths like candy. They are people! Right? Don’t look at me; tell the poll what you think:
I live in worlds where tiny people are naturally born small, and considered human beings the same way most people on this Earth are. I also live in/write about worlds where everyone was once normal sized, and only those of a certain gender or two are made tiny by force. Sometimes I’m the one that gleefully pushes that button. In those stories, published and unpublished, those tiny people are treated with varying degrees of severity.
And there are those stories centered around one woman and one man. She shrinks him without consent, she touches him without asking, and she has her way repeatedly without the least concern for his acceptance in the matter. That’s how it is in my heart and in my head. I don’t ask my shoes if I can wear them when I slip my feet into them. Likewise, I don’t write about characters that ask for permission to shrink, to grab, to love, to use what belongs to them.
I’m an owner by nature, and I let that nature drizzle over what I write as often as I can. I don’t know why I’m this way, and every once in a while I feel a hint of alarm the stems from my strong conviction that this is really who I am, and I don’t just play one on TV… so the people I create in my worlds are equally singleminded. They stop at nothing to get what they want, and offer no excuses or apologies afterwards. My one saving grace (if I can convince anyone to think of it as such) is that there is very little chance I’ll ever gain the power to shrink others or grow myself.
However, I’m quite interested in forcing myself to write from different perspectives, so if in the future you see blog entries and stories that play counterpoint to the aforementioned, just know I’m toying with my brain. For fun and growth. Maybe if my brain grows, my body will follow. Here’s hoping.
She sat in front of the TV watching every channel come to life and then flicker away. This went on for a while until her pet robot tilted his head towards her, and did that staring thing that annoyed her a great deal.
“Focus on channel surfing, Toy. Don’t look at me.”
“Owner, I can change the channel without staring at the screen. You know that.”
She sighed and smiled internally. That Mouthy app was certainly paying off. It made him a much more interesting robot than he had been for the two previous years she had owned him.
“Yes, I know. I’m not really watching anything, and you know that. I’m just trying to decide.”
“Decide what, owner?”
She took another swig of tequila from her emptying bottle and regarded his lustrous skin. No, not skin. Layer. Synthetic layer that doesn’t even look like skin, she thought, and for no real reason, that thought pushed her off the fence and she finished making up her mind.
“Toy, turn off the TV.”
“Owner, I’m always paying attention, even when I’m recharging.”
“Yeah, that doesn’t make sense, and it’s creepy as fuck, truth be told.”
“Owner is cussing.”
“Yes. And what of it?”
“Owner, you only swear when you’re about to make a big decision.”
“Shut up and pay attention.”
“Come here. Sit by my side.”
The robot, only slightly over two feet in height, pivoted in place and away from the TV screen, and towards his owner. He hopped on the couch next to her and she immediately felt that artificial warmth that emanated from his body. It didn’t feel real, but there were moments in the night when it came in handy. She lifted him from the sitting position he seemed to have begun to adopt, and heard him say, “Eep!” in protest. She smirked at him when she planted him in her lap facing her, and regarded him for a moment.
“I’m going to teach you Love.”
“Owner, I know what love means-”
“Shut up, Toy. Don’t interrupt me again or I’ll sit on your voicebox until it cracks.”
“Fuck, I love that app. You even look surprised.”
“I’m shocked, owner!”
“Sure you are. Look, there are parts of you that are not currently in use. You know that, right?”
“Tonight I’m going to activate your Eternity module.”
“Owner, no! That will erase my memory!”
“I know. But I want to activate it. I want you to learn Love.”
“Owner, please. I’ve learned so much. I’ll all be deleted and I’ll have forgotten everything. I’ll have forgotten you.”
“Do you love me?”
“Owner, I don’t.”
“Do you love anything?”
“Owner, I don’t”
“When I activate your Eternity module, your memory will be infinite. Right now you have enough space in you for twenty years of experience. When this thing comes on, you’ll never stop learning.”
“Well, not ‘never’. Someday you’ll fall apart, but not for three hundred or so years.”
“Two hundred ninety-seven years, nine months, three days, two minutes, thirty- twenty-nine, twenty-eight-”
“Oh, fuck, stop!”
“You’ll learn Love, and you’ll love me forever. There will be no more apps. Everything will be console written. Do you understand?”
“Yes, owner. It means I’ll learn directly from experience, and not from downloads.”
“Why do you want me to love you? Love is between people.”
“Toy, I know you’ve read the Internet. I know you’ve read that people sometimes do things with inanimate objects.”
“True, owner. But you aren’t like that.”
“How do you know what I’m like?”
“I’ve watched you, owner. The porn you watch streams through me. It’s always about men and penises and how large they are and how many times they can cum when tied down and a woman is sitting on their-”
“Toy, shut the fuck up, or I swear I’ll turn this obsolete remote control into a temporary penis for you.”
“Yes. Eep. Eep away.”
“Are you done? Good. Now open your main port.”
Toy obeyed, Mouthy app or not. She turned him around and spotted the one button she had never even seen before that day except online, in the manual she’d been studying for a month. The button was small, and the only red thing in his head. She took a deep breath, looked to her left where a screwdriver sat on her lamp table, grabbed it and drove it into Toy’s head, pushing the red button and turning on the Eternity module. Toy went limp and she held him firmly until he came alive again. For a moment, she thought he turned just a couple of degrees colder. She almost cried out her name, nearly forcing a self-love protocol that would have lasted for centuries. Instead, she waited until a quiet beep indicates he was on.
And then silence. Silence for ten seconds that felt like ten hours until his little body straightened up in her arms, and his tiny hands flew into hers. His head rotated fully, and he looked up and into her eyes as he whispered, “Emily.”
She swallowed hard, and told herself she wasn’t moving because she knew he was tracing every detail of her retinas into his memory, every corner of her face, every line and bump and imperfection, and cataloging them for worship. It also meant that he would only love her, and if anyone tried to reprogram his Eternity module, he would self-destruct.
She smiled, knowing those would be the only two words he would say until she taught him more. She stared into his eyes, which now had pupil-like red dots glowing at the very center of each, and was amazed to see him smile. He had never smiled like this before. It looked real. She could see his perfect teeth and his wet tongue. His tongue. Her smile deepened as she pointed at his warm chest.
His warmth was different. She was surprised to feel her heart pounding. She turned him around, still holding him in her arms like a baby, and was surprised to see that, not only did his head swivel so he could keep staring at her, but there was something happening to his groin. An extension of his outer layer had projected away from it, and stood firm, pointing decidedly in her direction.
She looked up at his face and pointed at the protrusion.
Laughing, she figured the next word should be “bed”. And then “naked”. And “vagina”. And “arm”. And “inside”. And “lick”. And “there”. And “all night”. And “oh my god”. And “fuck fuck yes oh yes”. “And “keep going”.
If I could hold them in my hand I’d make them understand I’m not a haunted mind I’m not a thoughtless kind
If I could put them in a jar I know they wouldn’t scar I’d do it if I could I hope you know I would
“Late At Night” – Buffalo Tom
I’ve been told my gentle posts are boring. I’m not sure what’s wrong with some tiny brains, but there is nothing boring about stories of shrinking a person down to a couple of inches in height and loving that person to death. No, not literally. I’m going to keep writing about the things I like, and if a few people find them boring, that’s perfectly fine. I hold no grudge against those wonderful and mentally balanced people, and to demonstrate my gentleness, I promise that upon my tremendous growth I will pay those people a visit, and give them exactly what they want in a prolonged, exquisite, thorough manner. See? I’m sweetness incarnate.
I’ll continue to write about that common man you see every day, and that uncommon woman you ignore every day, and the way she sees him and doesn’t think he’s common at all, and there is something about the way he walks or pays for his coffee or fills out his pants that propels her to get up from her seat and follow him, and when he turns to face her she stretches out her arms as though she’s an old friend from college, hiding the hypodermic needle that finds his neck and shrinks him permanently.
I’ll continue to write about what happens when he wakes up, and days and weeks and months and years go by, and he continues to wake up tiny, and the anger has diminished the same way he did, and he finally understands that she is his life now. He sees love in everything she does to for him. She fills his life with purpose, dreams, children, and peace.
There are universes filled with people that experience importance in being a temporary entertainment, their flash in the pan nothing but a sticky glob under the foot of a woman that already forgot she crushed their insignificant bodies. I see meaning in that… but I was born with an understanding of the value of tiny people. When I was a toddler and learning to read, “dwarves” in fairy tales only measured a few inches in height and their whole purpose in life was to entertain me. I had dreams about them that seemed real. I still remember their weight on my torso when they climbed from the floor to my bed and then onto me, speaking a chittering language I struggled to understand, and dancing and telling me stories. My impulse wasn’t to crush or devour them, but to preserve and befriend them.
I wanted what they gave me to continue for all eternity, the same way I want those little people in some of my stories to live forever. In my stories I want the giantess to live forever, and she often does. She captures the moon for the man she chooses, and it doesn’t matter what havoc that wreaks on the planet’s surface… I don’t ever think about that. One of my favorite WIPs is a story about a giantess that likes to gift planets. That’s a scale in which I feel quite comfortable, and why I bought that moon lamp in the picture. That’s also why when I found that galaxy egg-decorating kit for Easter, I had to buy it and use it. I own the stars, and when I look at the Milky Way it feels mine too. When I stand in place and look up at the heavens and watch them turn, I don’t feel small like so many people do. I feel that’s my backyard. I feel I can stretch out and touch it and make it my toy.