Nearly ten years ago I wrote something about a little man, and his sweet tooth. Last year, when I started blogging again, I visited Giantess City and searched my own name to see what I had last written, and when. Much to my surprise I found a story, written by telebot, based on that something I just mentioned. I saw that it had been written and posted a few years ago, and because I had no computer, I never saw it until last year. telebot no longer seems to be active there, but maybe one day he’ll see this blog entry. Thank you for writing a story based on words of mine.
I’ve read the story a couple of times now, not because it’s the type of work I read, because it’s not. It has cruel content, and the kind of hard, heartless vore I can’t stand. I shouldn’t be reading stories like that these days, but I can’t help but feel curiosity. Sometimes we live the feelings about which we read; and I can always find myself somewhere in the words I read and the stories I review, even if only a vague reflection of me.
How can I possibly connect to any of these characters, you ask? First we have the woman, who remains unnamed throughout the story. Married to a little guy, she doesn’t seem to care for him any more. There is some kindness left in her, the vestiges of it, but not enough to care about his opinions. Did she, ever? If she’s anything like me, she once did. She lived for that little guy. She woke up thinking of him, and went to bed with him in her mind. He always came first.
Not anymore; now a visit from her friends is enough to flick a switch in her, one that shows him he’s nothing but a pest. His presence there no longer matters. Do I care? Every word in his mind is a drop in the bucket of my contempt. If I don’t care, and his wife no longer cares, nor does he. It doesn’t seem he ever did. Even when he was a man of regular height, he demonstrated disloyalty he believes is the opposite, and a selfishness that eats away at love, no matter how strong in the beginning. If I regularly bake a batch of brownies for someone I love, and all he ever leaves me is crumbs, then that’s what happens to my love too. It fragments. He drew first vore.
And then there’s the dance between his thoughts and the actions of her friends, some of them not deserving of the title. Yes, it happens that we all make friends and we don’t see them for what they truly are, greedy creatures out to fuck our spouses given the chance. Or fuck them up. Some of her friends are exactly that. He describes one of them as a “cold-hearted bitch”, but so is he. The more I get to know him, the more he earns his fate.
Or does he? Is being an undeserving brute enough of a black mark to warrant that fate? His size makes him more valuable in my eyes than he would have been when he was fully grown. Given the choice, someone like me prefers to take a shrunken man to bed, and not one I can’t lift off the floor. The little one is simply more arousing, so I didn’t buy that “he can’t satisfy her now”. At his size, she’d only have to stare at him long enough to feel an explosion in her skirts.
But a tiny asshole is still an asshole. I’d have let him follow a different route, one not so esophageal. I’d have taken him to the park, and released him with a shove into the grass. I’d have given him up to whatever foster care exists in that world. But not before giving him every opportunity to be what I needed him to be. And I believe that little guy had every chance to be a man. I believe that’s what she did to him when she shrank him. She made him small so he could grow. He couldn’t be a man to her at his regular height, so maybe she thought he could be one when the size of a toy.
What can I say? Sometimes we are wrong. Sometimes we like stories, not because they are pleasant. I like it because I feel connected to it. And that’s all we ever need sometimes. Connection.