“Why am I stretching?”


“It’s not as though I’m going to get any taller.”

“Please, be quiet.”

“I don’t like yoga.”

“That’s not yoga. We’re not doing yoga.”

“Then what are we doing?”

“We’re relaxing.”

“Can’t we relax indoors?”

“Do you know why I brought you to the beach in the middle of October?”


“Because I’d like to drown you.”


“But I’m not going to. Instead of picking up your little body and holding it underwater until it stops moving, I’m sitting here, erasing all thought from my mind, and trying to remember everything I like about you.”

“What did I do?!”

“Nothing. Everything.”

“Why are you so mad at me then? Talking about drowning me. That’s not nice.”

“Do you want to know what’s not nice? I could tell you everything you do that’s not nice. Instead, I’m going to sit here and think good thoughts. It’s either that or packing up your few belongings and kicking you to the curb.”

“I don’t even know what I did wrong!”

“I remember when I met you. I’d seen small men before. Even dated a few. Almost married one. When I saw you I forgot every other man I’d ever met, big or small.”

“You wanted me.”

“I did. More than anyone else on Earth. That’s why I took you the way I did. I knew you were in need, the way you were working that corner, eyeing every woman that drove by, ducking out of sight when you saw the drivers were men.”

“Then I saw you.”

“I stopped the car long enough to open the door and grab you. I didn’t even ask you how much for the night.”

“And I didn’t say.”

“And I never paid.”

“And I never left.”

“You never left.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“You can be so sweet at times. So tender. That’s when I delight in every word that comes out of your mouth. When I come home and you run to my side, stretching your little arms to be picked up when you can’t even reach my knee.”

“I like to see you when you come home. I like the way you pick me up and hold me close, and kiss my whole face at once.”

“I like that too. I like it when you ask me how my day was, and you get mad at the people that made me angry. I really like when you lift your hands to my lips and massage away their tightness, your tiny fingers smoothing over every pucker and wrinkle.”

“You don’t have any wrinkles.”

“Lines. I mean lines. And wrinkles? I’m starting to… just look at this eleven shape between my eyebrows.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t scowl at me so much.”

“Maybe you should stop making me.”

“I don’t-”

“Shh. I like your voice. I like the way it makes my heart beat faster even though I haven’t been running. I like the horrible sounds you make when you sing-”

“Hey! You said you like my voice!”

“I do. I love your voice, but you can’t sing for shit.”

“I’ll have you know I used to sing lead vocals in a very popular group back in the day.”

“You have an appalling singing voice, but I’d take your singing any day, over any other singing.”

“Even Luciano Pavarotti’s?”

“Anyone living.”


“I like that you’ve stuck around this long. I like to wake up and see your little body next to mine, my panties your blanket tangled around your legs. I like to bring my face to your body and breathe in your scent… which is usually my scent, left to marinate overnight.”

“I’d really like a bath every night.”

“Not gonna happen.”

“I had to try. So, if you like me so much, what’s wrong?”

“I like the way you walk. Your little legs barely covering any ground at all, but your stride is so confident, you look like you’re stepping over mountains. You are a giant in the body of a toy-sized man.”

“That sounds weird… I don’t feel giant.”

”I like the way you make me forget my worries when we’re together.”

“I sound great! I don’t know what the problem is, then.”

“The problem is, this is not real.”

“What’s not real? What do you mean?”

“You. Me. None of this is real.”

“Stop. This is real.”

“It’s not. You’re not here. I’m not here. This is not a real place.”

“Stop saying that.”

“Every day is the same: I wake up first, and wake you up. We have breakfast. I go to work. Next thing you know, I’m back. Then we have a nice, relaxed evening, or we go out. We go on trips together. Our holidays are wonderful. But nothing is real.”

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut the fuck up!”

“Why is it that you never talk about yourself?”

“I don’t- I don’t like to talk about my personal details.”

“Really? Personal details? In this world, you belong to me, but you can’t tell me your phone number?”

“That’s priv- I mean… we have the same phone number. Oh, god. What’s happening?”

“Every night is the same: the sun sets, and I tell you the truth. You and I met online at a VR station. We were roleplaying this whole size world when you had a stroke, and collapsed on the floor. I wasn’t there to witness the event. To me, it only seemed as though you dropped the connection, and decided to ghost me. I didn’t hear about you again until your girlfriend contacted me-”

“My what?!”

“Your girlfriend. The woman you love. The one holding your real hand right now, waiting for you to wake up from a deep coma. She’s been waiting for a year.”

“Please, stop. Shut up. No more.”

“Every night I tell you she found me. As it turned out, every time they tried to unhook you from our VR world, you died. I don’t know how she figured it out. Something about the VR unit being stuck to your port all the way to the hospital or something like that. The point is, she contacted the VR company, and got them to release my name. Got lawyers involved and everything. One day I’m bringing the laundry in from the line, and there’s a knock on the door. After she explained everything, she begged me to help. She had tried hooking up to your environment from her own account to no avail. It was only when I entered it using mine as I used to do that I saw you there. Waiting. Working that corner and looking in every direction like you were lost.”

“No. No no no no.”

“Yes. That’s why you fight my getting close to you. That’s why you don’t love me, and never will. You need to wake up and get back to reality. She needs you. She’s waiting for you.”

“Stop. Stop fucking with me. You’re lying. I can’t believe you can be this cruel.”

“I’m only here to help. At the expense of my own life, and my own heart. Wake up soon, because I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

“I want to go home.”

“I know. And you will.”

“No! I want to go to our home. Our house. Where we live.”

“We don’t have a house. We don’t have anything. But shh. That’s enough for today. Come to me, sweetie. I’ll take you back inside that fake beach house, and hold you and love you one more night, and when you wake up you’ll remember everything about today, except this conversation. You’ll be happy. I might be a little happy too. Sometimes I am. Then, when the sun sets, I’ll try again.”


21 thoughts on “Calm

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  1. Oh, this is heart-rending. It’s like a reverse Groundhog Day, where he wants to keep having the same day over and over, and she kinda does too, but she’s trying to do the right thing. The only way she can reach him is to evoke the fantasy world that she has to get him to reject, and she’s almost as attached to the fantasy as he is.

    Clearly, they need to find a way to get his RL girlfriend hooked up so she can be his giantess and take him home, but I don’t think our protagonist could take that.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. She is trying to do the right thing. She thinks she is. She’s abandoned her own life for him, so she’s not devoid of feelings here. She’s invested while knowing she’ll get nothing in return.

      His RL girlfriend tried hooking herself up to his world, but she doesn’t “exist” there. He doesn’t perceive her as real in there. It might work one day. When it does, the protagonist will suffer tremendously, but she’ll have to press on. What other choice is there?

      Liked by 1 person

      1. I’m imagining the protagonist and the RL girlfriend having their own VR sessions for “giantess training,” and the protagonist slowly influencing the boyfriend’s fantasy to allow for the introduction of the RL girlfriend as a new giantess persona, who could then earn the affections of her macrophilia-besotted boyfriend.

        A lot of soul-wasting work with little hope of success, all for the purpose of giving up her tiny toy to someone who has no true appreciation for him.

        Liked by 2 people

        1. Of course. After she unplugs from her VR device, she talks to the girlfriend, and tells her about his day, not only because his girlfriend wants to hear about him, but she wants to know how to proceed, given the opportunity.

          In truth she doesn’t feel she’s giving him up. He’d have had to be hers at some point, and he never was, no matter what her heart claims. And the girlfriend might not have an appreciation for what he is in that world, but she is fully aware and devoted to what he is everywhere else. If not for her, he’d be nothing.


  2. This is an incredible story. This is where the art elevates or expands into other genres. What would stop you from submitting this to any sci-fi magazine? Nothing. It’s a nice dose of speculative fiction. Some of those readers might question why the man needs to be tiny in this story, others would write it off as a tangent of two people’s personal indulgence, and others would wonder where they could find more like this because they’re sure they were the only people who had this fantasy. But this is a solid story with great background and characters, and it could live and thrive anywhere.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you, Aborigen. Hmm… submitting it for publication, you say? I’ll give that some thought. I’ve never thought of such a thing for myself, but why not.

      The idea of someone reading this somewhere and feeling connected to ideas they thought lived only in their head is enough of a reason to make me want to submit it.

      Liked by 1 person

        1. It seems to me there would be a handbook for such a thing… “how to make a normie like what you like”. Since the brain can get used to a great many things, I sometimes think a fetish with which one was not born can be made to spring forth somehow. Or maybe that’s how I rationalize that I can’t really picture why women don’t like fantasizing about tiny men to the open, widespread degree I imagine they should.


          1. Over the years I’ve heard scores of different accounts of how size fantasy first appeared to people and then affected them throughout their lives. While many people often cite similar encounters with a particular visual prompt (often a TV show or movie involving size difference), the feelings and scenarios that persist in their imaginations can vary widely. I’m particularly intrigued by how malleable each person regards their size enthusiasms. Some people think of their size kinks as “hard-wired,” while others report that their interests have “evolved” over time. I’ve even heard from a few people who never thought about this stuff until they were introduced to it as an adult, either online or via a partner.

            It’s been my impression that the younger one is at the time of “onset,” the more likely one is to feel that one’s interest in size fantasy is innate and less likely to believe that it can be modified. It’s very common to feel that one is unique in having these fantasies, and therefore to be ashamed to admit them. Some people report finding their size kinks so awkward that they would get rid of them if they could, and therefore conclude that they were “born this way.”

            I’ve experienced almost all of these phases myself. I’ve had both persistent fantasies as well as interests that have changed over time, including reflecting on early memories and “releasing” fantasies that I had repressed. The most delightful discovery has been learning to appreciate new aspects after encountering imagery or writing by others. I now regard my interest in size fantasy less as a sexual fetish and more of an artistic passion. I enjoy how the size community is developing its own aesthetic, but my real thrills come from the notion that my work might speak to someone who never seriously considered size fantasy before.

            Liked by 1 person

            1. I’ve heard similar accounts as well, from people that like what they like, close themselves off to any “evolution” or further exploration of different fantasies. There are others that end up having such realizations, that they land exactly at an “opposing” point from where they began. That I could have interpreted size input in the conventional manner “everyone else” does, but didn’t—practically from birth—is what leads me to maintain I was born this way.

              I do have to agree that when a sexual interest is combined with an artistic one, the result is far superior an experience than what I might have experienced if I had been content with just one. The thrill I derive from it is mostly self-centered, however. Everyone around me seems to be a thousand times more generous than I can ever aspire to be.


              1. I’m typically reluctant to speak for others, but I think it’s safe to say that the satisfaction that an artist feels when they genuinely succeed at communicating their meaning to someone else is wholly ego-centric.

                Liked by 1 person

    1. She is not your giantess. You do not have the right to refer to her as “my giantess”. Only I have been allowed that great privilege. Your calling her that is unwelcome and unasked for. Kindly refrain from ever using that term again. You’ve been warned for the last time.

      Liked by 1 person

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