It’s today. If you’re into comics, I hope you get the chance to visit and support your local comic book shop. I know I will, but that’s not really what I want to talk about. What I wish to discuss is my good-natured frustration when I see the covers of some comics and they seem to be about very tiny people in the possession of someone much larger than they are.
Why can’t these stories be about those “big” people spotting that person they like, shrinking them very small, and taking them home so they can have mind-blowing sex? So I look at covers like the one I’ve inserted at the left, and I imagine the tale of those two persons, as one becomes the owner, and the other one the toy.
Do I stop there? No, of course I don’t. I also imagine that I read this comic with my own tiny—and very real—toy, and instead of adhering to whatever ridiculous and boring story line the comic is about, I tell him the real story. It begins as the female character (that for some reason tends to look and sound like me) makes the best decision she could, which is to shrink a man in her vicinity. The process doesn’t necessarily include his participation in any decision making. Only survival. As my tiny man is jammed between my breasts—his head the only visible part of him as we both peruse pages of a comic I’m not really reading—he listens to my voice overtake the plot and tell the manner in which the woman reduces the man’s height… sometimes slowly, others instantaneously… and then she takes him.
She might take him gently as she extends her hand and allows him a moment to decide to climb into her palm on his own volition. Sometimes I tell my little guy the freshly shrunken guy is frightened and angry at having been changed so abruptly, so he rebels. He resists.
It is then that the story may take a darker tone as our beloved protagonist removes any doubt in the mind of her target as to who is in control, and what is about to happen. What is about to happen, you ask?
Sex, of course. Tons of sex. Now, the characters in my pretend stories are not always a woman and a tiny man. Sometimes there are tiny women, and very bad things happen to them. Sometimes they get eaten, especially if they happen to be the tiny man’s previous relationship. One of my favorite stories to tell my darling little toy is that of a man that ends up reduced to the size of two inches, and the woman that shrinks him also shrinks the significant other that happened to get in her way.
Then, she swallows her.
Then, because she feels conflicted about it (this is a lie—she just wants to do the following), she places the shrunken man on the soft skin of her midriff, and invites him to console his “ex” through the wall of her flesh as the tiny woman is slowly digested. Her expression is both sweet and magnanimous as she listens to the faint screams coming from the churning organ inside her, and the trembling cries of the man she wants as he says his last goodbyes to the dissolving morsel that was once his beloved.
But now he has bigger fish to fry, so the story goes. So does the itty bitty sex toy trembling between my boobs as I instruct him to wriggle until his hand is in place, and enjoy what I’m telling him, no matter what the story is about. Even when the cover has nothing to do with size and everything to do with Marvel characters, I still circle back to my worlds and make it be about size change, and sex.
I want that life so badly! I want a life in which I get up in the morning to share each day with a very short guy I made that way. On a day like tomorrow, we’d wake up (or I’d wake up, it doesn’t matter what he’s doing), to vigorous bedroom activities that echo what we were busy doing the previous night.
Then we’d shower and have breakfast. He’d eat the crumbs I place on the rim of my plate, where he always sits. I could probably find a table and chair small enough for him, and sometimes I imagine I buy him furniture I place on mine to show him how minute he is.
A table and chair placed next to my breakfast plate would do just the trick, don’t you think? Other times I imagine I “have to” prechew his food, and even more frequently I love to imagine I order him to find his food— no, I can’t possible share that with you. It’s too shocking. Anyway… after breakfast I’d get dressed, place him where he’s most wanted, and leave the house to go get the comics I’ll spend the entire day deconstructing with him.
Recently, one of the comics I imagined fake-reading to him involved my own fantastic growth. I increased in size until I reached several hundred feet in height. Then I spent the rest of my days creating visual fodder for people that use their phone cameras to capture videos of giantesses having their way with people they pick off the street like ripe berries from the green.
Though in my case, I only chose this one guy I liked. I’d visit him at work, and basically bully everyone around him into being nice to him because he was “my boyfriend”. During his breaks (which I manufactured), I’d pluck him from the office and have a bit of very public fun. Though repetitive, that sort of graphic novel would get much wear and tear in my house. Someday, it will. And my little guy will be ordered to enjoy it three or four times in a row as I hold him between my breasts and watch him struggle between their pulsing masses, my heart pounding faster and making them quake.