Isn’t it funny when someone from the giantess community tries to explain to you why your particular take fantasy isn’t feasible? “How can you possibly enjoy imagining a two-inch-tall man? You can’t feel him. What can you do to him?” And of course you see them later carrying on about what giantesses do to buildings (which everyone knows couldn’t possible ever happen).
Of course I can feel a man even if he only measures two inches in height. I can certainly hear everything he says, and I can most definitely smell him. It is every small stimuli as perceived by me that drives me crazy about these visions of a small man, although depending on my mood it can work the other way around—the imagining of every giant effect I have on things and people around me.
Scent.jpg appears to be about the latter, but the story I tell myself about it is about both sides of the coin. First there’s the overwhelming of a man when I shrink him (or when I grown, whatever), the overtaking of his senses when I cut him off his previous life and provide for his every need in the precise way I decide. It’s so much fun to imagine his initial resistance, his horror of what I’ve done to him almost immediately begin to mingle with irrepressible arousal. And I love to imagine that even the air he breathes makes it to his bitty lungs because I allow it to do so.
I fill that air with me. Every time he inhales he can sense a part of me, and how hot it is to think that he can compose a geography of me in his mind from every different scent he detects. To the north is a vast field that smells of lemon and herbs when he decides to get lost in my hair. As he travels south there’s the minty fresh breezes from my breath (we’re going to forget about morning breath just now, as I’m not into torturing a little guy). Farther he walks to more heavily perfumed lands, until he reaches that most hidden place that has given him his own new fragrance…. I love to tell him, “That’s right little honey, I took away the way your skin smells, and replaced it with my scent.” A woman loves to mark her territory, no matter how tiny it is.
Every once in a while he smells like himself, especially after a nice bath in the bathroom sink, or with me in the shower. Then I can lift him to my nose and ever so slightly, behind soap and shampoo molecules I can still pick up his own manly scent, sweet and virile at the same time. It melts me.
Anyway, all that happens before I set him down gently on the floor, before Scent.jpg takes place. Down there everything he gets rains down on him by the grace of me. It can be torrential and fulfilling, or a frustrating trickle. You have no idea how much fun it is to watch such a small man’s heave, tremble, and scream with dissatisfaction because the promised land is so far above him, beyond his reach, and the one that promised it to him can only tease him about its distance, only allowing him to see it, to smell it, to watch what happens to it without any help from his puny body, thank you very much.
Anything that happens after that is equally wonderful and free of frustration. As I said, I don’t torture my little ones. Well, not often.