Singer

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Because I’m convinced we’re all very busy writing or plagiarizing or parodying songs about tiny men and giantesses, I decided to create a contest about it. I begin to suspect that only a few of us ever entertain the thought of composing original songs about people of different sizes. An even smaller number does it credibly. I’ve heard a couple of amazing works thus far.

My own songs are childish and mediocre, but you don’t see that stopping me from putting them together! Nope. I’ve also become interested in promoting my Size Tunes 2017 contest with commissioned images, the one above being the first of… I don’t know how many. Let’s see how addicted I become to DeviantArt artists. This one was made for me by TeaQuill, who is currently accepting commissions. I’m very happy with it.

I’m also quite sure we all like to be sung to, simply because I do. The idea of a shrunken man that serenades his giantess has always struck a deep chord with me. It doesn’t matter that he sounds like food cans being crushed, or that what he sings is the ABCs. What matters is that he does it; that he stands there and entertains her, and earns her heart by exposing himself, and giving her an offering that is part of who he is.

Speaking of who we are, this is who I am:

(Just the lyrics. The song file is just too much to share.)

(Hmm. Where’s my Dollhouse song?)

(I’ll post it later. I can’t find the lyrics right now.)

(But enjoy the image, and think of words to sing to your giantess.)

(Or your tiny man, if you have one that inspires you.)

 

Mistpouffer

Mistpouffer.jpg

It all started with a tweet, like so many things I write. Giantess Tina said something to me, then I said something back to her, and I thought I should use my Pixton account to make something of it. There’s no mist or sea foam in the Pixton edit menu, so I had to pull those out of my Internet magic hat. I’m sure that’s a fascinating detail. So… what’s the story here?

It’s very simple, really: Mistpouffers are always sounds giantesses make. In this case, it’s Tina who’s found a boat and its tiny (to us) navigator, and while he’s busy realizing those booming sounds he often heard coming from somewhere in the blue were made by a giantess living her life, she’s busy delighting in having found a precious… meal? Plaything? Companion? Friend? Lover? Who knows… in any case, he always transcends from human being to something else, something new.

When it’s me, the result is always life continued, only slightly modified by my giant whims. Why should I break such a wonderful toy? I’d never think of it. It’s my tendency to want him to live a long life. Once I pick a toy, it’s extremely unlikely I’d want to give it up. Therefore, his health is very important to me. Things like the state of his spine, and lungs, and legs. His puny brain, though materially useless, is also a fair diversion.

So, pay attention. When you go to the beach this summer, you’ll hear them in the night. When you go out at night to walk the dog, and listen to the waves crashing, don’t be distracted by the foam and the crabs dancing in the moonlight. You might miss that giant silhouette breaking the horizon line. If you don’t stop and look for the source of those booming sounds, you won’t see that feminine mountain range swimming your way, and extending one hand to pick your body from the shore.

Anyone else would say, “You’ll never be seen again,” but the truth is, you’ll finally be seen.

 

Vote for October’s writing contest theme!

I’ll type awesome words about it later, but in the meantime…

http://bit.ly/2v0GLLp

My Millions ad

I was sitting here, pissed off because I couldn’t find those old Lay’s Singles potato chip commercials. Remember them? I saw them nine years ago, and I posted a blog entry about them, and now the YouTube links for them are dead, once again proving that when I publish a video, I have to actually have the thing in my mac in case the link disappears. That’s what I’m doing now, but after finding super low-res versions of the ads I wanted, I also stumbled upon this…

Clearly, something very dirty is happening there, and I invented my own dialogue for it… Hm. I should use my iMovie to edit it. Yes… it will only intensify the uncomfortable way I feel, but hell, it’s a day of the week. When do I not feel the way I feel about my own sex toy Hopier in my own suitcase as I travel? He packs lightly when I don’t (yes, I know that makes no sense–never mind, I know what I mean).

Sacrifice

Sacrifice

Honestly, I think I only create these because I love handheld images so much. And then I like to overuse filters. In the past I’ve spent time online just looking for Photoshop Elements filters, no matter how useless they end up being. The original image is here. And what’s behind it? A number of things. As usual, I sat here and opened up my Pixton account with nothing in mind; but as soon as I slapped my avatar in the frame, I knew it was a handheld image. Then it came to me it was a conversation between a 203.5′ tall giantess, and the normal-sized man with whom she’s been having carnal knowledge.

As I typed the words, what I wanted to see was revealed. As always, I satisfy the impossibility of a relationship between a giantess and a man through these bursts of creativity. She holds him in her hand, and she’s only known him for a few days, but she’s heartbroken to leave him. Naturally we assume he is also distraught by this separation. At least they were together, while she… and here’s where I become a sitting cliche. Yeah, the giantess is an alien.

She’s an extraterrestrial being who’s there to explore and survey and find food for her people. And the little ones on that planet are the food. I don’t like vore (except the gentle kind), but that’s where the story went. She promises she’ll be back with some hungry friends (naturally), and that’s when, finally, the little man gathers enough courage to tell her that in all the confusion and passion of the last few days, he neglected to tell her that he’d prefer if she didn’t annihilate his race.

At that point she’d do anything for him, including subjecting her entire race to an eternal diet of klumpus (suffice it to say, it tastes like off-brand Cheetos –or worse, crunchy cheese snacks made by a health-food brand– at least until her kind realizes she lied in her report). That’s her sacrifice. And his is to leave everything behind for her, because that’s what you do when your beloved packs up and climbs aboard a spaceship to never come back. You go with her. Any other response would be rude.

And I love that super non sexy idea (well, probably for most) of transforming your entire life for another person, because of what they are. Sure, when the time comes to shrink someone, that man has no choice but to realize he’s now entering a new time in his life, and everything is different now. Nothing he knew before, he’ll be able to bring into his life when he becomes the possession of that woman who now owns him.

But… guess what? She’s also making an enormous sacrifice. That small life depends entirely upon her care. All the worries! She makes one simple mistake, and he dies, and there is no coming back from that, no matter what the stories tell you about going back to the pet store and buying another little man. In my world, the bond between owner and toy is unbreakable, and irreplaceable.

But yeah… her friends can eat his neighbors, I guess. What do I care?

Sameness

Handsy.jpg

It’s Saturday, so that means…

RANDOM COLLAGE TIME!

And do you want to know how I felt when creating the above image earlier today? I felt old-school. I felt antiquated and weird because I’m using real photos of hands, and not using a program with digital images of ready-made hands. Oh, well. Until I figure out how to work my Daz and Poser, this is how it’s going to be. Old-school.

Oh, great. I can already see ten things I need to fix. ARGH.

What did you say?

What did you say?

“Hey, giantess!”

Hey is for horses.”

“Uh, OK. So…”

“So?”

“I’m here!”

“So I see.”

“So… what are you going to do to me?”

“What in the world are you talking about?”

“Dunno. Are you going to pick me up between your fingers? Put me in your mouth? I’d like that very much. And if you’re feeling frisky, you can put me down your pan-”

“Oh, fuck. Not another freak.”

“W- what?”

“Are you insane? Why would I put you in my mouth? Or anywhere else?”

“Because you are a giantess. That’s what you do.”

“You have your head stuck on Incident 109. I suggest you snap out of it. Most of us don’t do that shit.”

“Speaking of shit, I wouldn’t mind it if you take a dump on me.”

“What!?”

“Yeah. Just take me with you to the Great Brown, and-”

“The “great” what? Jesus, is that what you little people are calling it now?”

“Yeah. The pictures of it from space, and just the color, you know?”

“Yeah. I guess. Look, I’m not taking you with me anywhere. I don’t know you, and I don’t want to know you. You are one of those little weirdos that get off on weird shit.”

“Oh, please. Are you going to tell me you never put any of us… you know… in there?”

“What is wrong with you? You’ve never met me in your entire life, and you just start talking to me in such a manner? How can you be so disrespectful?”

“…”

“Good. You appear to be thinking. Have a nice day.”

“Wait!”

“What?”

“My name is… er, G- Gonzo.”

“Really? ‘Gonzo’?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“I doubt that’s true.”

“I can’t tell you my real name. I’m sure you understand.”

“Why is that?”

“I have… I need to be careful about who sees me with you.”

“You do realize there are cameras on me all the time.”

“Yeah, but I haven’t done anything bad yet.”

“Nor will you.”

“Oh, c’mon! Please do something to me. I don’t care what! Just touch me. Put me in your hand. Let me hump your thumb!”

“Listen, you seem like a really stupid guy, so I’m going to tell you how it is: I’m not at all interested in touching you. Ever.”

“But it’s no trouble to you! All I want is-”

“Shut up. I don’t give a fuck what you want. Now, you know we’re not supposed to kill you little worms, but I’ll make an exception for you if you don’t stop talking right now. I want you to listen to me, and then I want you to go away. If I ever see you again, I will hunt down your family, and kill them all, one by one, and I’ll make sure you get to watch me do it. Then I’ll find your friends. I can, you know? I can smell each of them on you. I’ll hunt down every scent on your body, and I’ll kill every person you’ve ever met, and talked to. I’ll crush your pets, your home, your city. I’ll destroy the things you like, the actors you prefer, the books you’ve read. If you’ve ever read a single book. I doubt it. Good. Now I have your attention. Stop crying and listen up.

I’ve lost everything. Do you understand what that feels like? You don’t. Not yet. When I grew, it happened suddenly, the same way it happened to the rest of us. I killed my children and my husband with my giant body. I didn’t mean to, but they were eating next to me at the table. They never saw me coming. I never saw me coming. Then, naked, I crouched in rubble and decay for an entire week, alone and desperate, because I couldn’t move from the pain. Neighbors ran from me, or took shots at me with their guns. I wished that had worked, but as I’m sure even someone like you knows, I can’t ever die. I was so thirsty I thought I’d surely die, but for a week I was there, alone, hearing their screams, and feeling their hate. Then I sat in a giant cage for a year, until everyone figured out we could not be stopped, and I had to help with Incident 109. Yeah, that was me.

I have no friends except those of my kind. I have to shit in a field, and every time I do, pictures of my expanding and contracting asshole hit the Internet. I can’t read my books anymore. I don’t have the job for which I studied for years. I can’t watch TV, because I’m on it all the time. No one your kind talks to me except to say stupid shit as you did, or ask me the dumbest questions. I battle the impulse to destroy you every day. I get up in the morning and I want to create something, but all I see is an occupied canvas I want to wipe clean. You are that canvas. Do you feel me now? I’m not here to entertain or get you off. When I get off, it will be with someone I pick, someone with half a brain. He will get to go in my pocket. He will be picked up and caressed and considered and loved. I will listen to his words, and pay attention to his wishes.

You? You can die now.”

* * *

Collaging Notes

Season 4/5 of Rescue Me came out many years ago, back when I was starting to blog, or already blogging. I can’t remember. I do recall seeing the ad campaign for it, and thought it looked great. I think I also wanted to do something to “fix” one of the images, and that’s what I finally got around to doing. There wasn’t much to do, since the giantess part was already done. I only added a man who had the right pose, and changed her eyes, which should always be looking at the guy, even if he’s a little jerk. Then I altered shadows and highlights so it looks like the light on him is coming from a different direction, and I added his shadow. That was the hardest part, as I had to study other shadows in the image, and make his look halfway real. I could spend more time on it, but I’m not going to. This is not exactly a collage that makes me happy. It came from a different place… not sure which one yet. It’ll come to me, as I work on the blog entry.

Undertoy – 3

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Under_Toy_3 by Flagg3D

This is the final image of this series. It’s only a slight change in perspective from the earlier couple of images in the set. I’m having a hard time deciding whether it’s my favorite of the three. Whichever one I’m looking at the moment is my preferred one. I’ve had a couple of ideas for what I want to do with it, for stories, and even a song. In the end, I saw the story below. The series was something I commissioned from Flagg3D, to represent both my little man Hopier, and me. This story is inspired by the way I see him.

* * *

We’d stayed up late the night before, even thought it was a “school night”, as he likes to say. But this was “Logan” we were watching, so how could we not? It had been a long day, as we’d spent it fighting. Don’t tell him I said this, but sometimes I get it that he gets tired of being told what to do, all the time. And yesterday he’d had enough.

It wasn’t even that I ordered him to do anything out of the ordinary… just another little chore on his daily schedule; but my voice had been too stern, or maybe he wasn’t moving as quickly as I’d have liked. The reason doesn’t matter, but he exploded, and dropped what he was doing, and started screaming at me… saying terrible things to me about what I’d done to him, and why couldn’t he just “not have a schedule” sometimes, and the worst thing he’s ever said to me: “One of these days I’ll just disappear. Just watch me. I’ll just grab my things and go, and you’ll never see me again.”

Those words chilled my heart, and I stood there, over him, feeling waves of hurt wash over me, over and over again. And then I turned around, and left the room. The rest of the day we didn’t say a word to each other. Not a single word. I know he keeps a secret stash of food and water in the dollhouse, so he didn’t go hungry. And at night, as I sat in the living room and clicked the remote to get “Logan” going, I watched him appear in the comparatively immense door frame. I clicked the pause button, and waited for him to walk the entire span of floorboards and rug until he reached the couch. Then, he gave me that little nod that’s our Rapunzel code for “Owner, owner, let down your hand!” and I bent to lower my palm to floor level.

He climbed it, and I lifted him to my face, and we both said we were sorry, and we said nothing else as I brought him to my chest, where he pivoted as he slipped between my breasts until we both faced the same direction. I clicked play, and when that thing happened to my second favorite mutant, and I started crying, I felt his little body torque back to face me, and as he caressed that rumbling spot where my heart beats, I let one of my fingers run down the length of his tiny body, from the back of his head to the small of his back. The rest of him was boob-hidden. We were going to be fine. Or so I thought.

The next morning I woke up and did the first thing I always do: I looked at the panty mound next to me where he sometimes sleeps, and I smiled. Somewhere in there, his little body dozed. I was tempted to reach for him; it was on the schedule, after all… but I decided to let him rest, and instead planned to make the day extra fun for him, starting with what I’d wear all day. I picked out my tightest pair of jean shorts; the kind I should have thrown out years ago, because they were far too tight to wear out on the street without getting arrested if I happened to bend over. But he loved me in them. He loved to watch me walk around the house in them, sturdy denim fabric that was no match for what nature had given me. Blue fabric that stretched and bent, each thread choking as it stretched over round cheeks too large, too unrestrained to control.

But he loved riding in my back pocket even more, so I’d give him the entire day off, and place him back there, next to me, on me, feeling every trembling shake of that cheek as it battled with its twin one for dominance. That war will never end, and he gets to live through it, I thought as I smiled, and stepped into my shorts, clean after my shower, and sucked in my gut, knowing I’d probably break a nail as I pulled and danced in place, my shorts finally inching into place. I walked over to my full-length mirror, and turned to see myself. I shook my head. I had no idea how I’d pull away enough pocket opening to push his body in place. The thing would probably rip at the corner, it looked so distended. I pushed my finger into that blue, curved depth, and took a sounding of the give of my swell down there. But my finger was infinitely strong when compared to that infinitesimal lump of flesh that was my little man. I shrugged. He liked what he liked.

I finished getting dressed, and walked over to my bed, to fetch his body from my panties. I lifted one fold carefully, and saw nothing. Puzzled, I picked another fabric corner, and found him not. I finally plucked the entire thing from my bed, and gave it a little shake. I sank my body into the side of my mattress, and held my panties up and against the light, thinking maybe he’d gotten stuck in some remaining moisture, but there was nothing. He was not there. I looked around, and thought maybe he had gotten up in the middle of the night, and had gone to the dollhouse to finish sleeping somewhere his earth wouldn’t constantly quake, which is what happens when I turn in my slumber. I lifted that hinged roof and looked down in his bedroom. Nothing. Nobody.

At that point, I usually call him to my side. Sometimes I go on the hunt, searching for him quietly, like a hungry lioness eager to feed. Then it brings me great pleasure to find him, even though I know it’s impossible for me to stalk him: I’m too tall for the task. He’ll always feel my footsteps at a distance; he’ll always hear my breathing the same way a farmer hears the wind and knows a storm is coming. That’s fine with me. The point is to make my way to him, to learn his every hiding place without his having (or even wanting) to tell me, to feel my lips tug upward when I finally see him, and grab his twitching body. So I decided to hunt.

Still barefoot, I dropped on my hands and knees and looked under the bed. I knew that if he was looking at me from afar, he was getting a good show of my backside as part of it stretched past the hem of my shorts. But there was nothing worth seeing under my bed. I crawled to my dresser slowly and deliberately, and I looked under it. Nothing. I felt the first twinge of impatience. I had to take a deep breath to calm myself down. I had a lot to do today, but I had the good fortune to work from home. This was a luxury I would allow him. So I kept looking.

Fifteen minutes later, I still had not found him. That’s when I felt the first lap of fear stroke my chest. That’s when I finally called out to him. First I used his pet name. Then another. Then every choice term of endearment I’d ever invented for him. I did my rounds again as I uttered each word. I retraced my steps when I started using every sexual word I’d ever called him. I bent low and stretched my neck under places I should have vacuumed more often, and I whispered  every teasing, demeaning, belittling name I’d ever bestowed upon him. Nothing. I finally sat on the floor, and as I felt cool floorboards lower the temperature of my ass cheeks before that tide turned instantaneously, I burst into tears. He had left me! The little shit had done as he said he would do, and had packed up his flea-sized things, and had abandoned me. Just because I gave his life purpose?

I’d find him. Oh, I would not stop until I scoured the entire neighborhood. I’d get bloodhounds if I had to, to track his unfeeling little shape and bring it to me, but he was coming back. I sat there, thinking about the steps I’d have to take today to get the local K-9 unit involved. I’d definitely have to wear my shorts to the station. I wasn’t going to stop at anything. The waistband of my shorts was beginning to dig into me as I sat there, plotting my little love’s search and discovery, thinking of a fitting punishment that would go on for days, when I felt the slightest of struggles in my jean pocket. Not the one I had tested with my finger. The other one.

I gasped, and foolishly turned in place like a dog chasing its tail. My heart jumping in place like one of those energetic little girls rope skipping until the end of time, I slowed myself down, and calmly turned from the waist up, and looked over my shoulder. There, in my pocket, was a lump; a tiny length of moving flesh that struggled uselessly. I bit my lip hard, because I started crying harder than ever. He had not left me! I quickly dried my tears with one hand, and reached into my pocket very gently, to make space for the little worm. I slipped one finger down his back as I’d done last night, but this time I went deeper, until I hooked my finger pad to his butt, spreading his legs wide. I reeled him in slowly, as his front rubbed that rough jean fabric. I heard him cry out in protest.

I didn’t care. I was beginning to sink into fury when I pinched his newly freed abdomen with my thumb, and brought him faceside. Quickly. Fast. So fast he was turning white when I brought him to a full stop next to my face, and started whisper-screaming at him. I called every mean name I’d ever invented for him, and asked him if he knew what he had done to me. Me! His owner! How I had looked for him, and anguished over him! And that’s when I saw him smile. His mouth stretched so wide it could have spanned the country from coast to coast. I was flabbergasted. I stared at him, my anger lost in confusion. I asked him the reason for his smile. Was it my suffering?

He said it wasn’t. Of course it hadn’t been my suffering! He was smiling because after he hid in my pocket while I took my shower, I looked for him. He was happy because I cared. He was delighted because I’d cried for him, and though he’d not read my mind about the search dogs, he’d felt my intent as I sat there in the quiet, and he’d known again what I’ve always told him; what I’ve been repeating to him every day since the moment I shrank and kidnapped him: I loved him.

And it was true. I did. So I returned his smile, and brought them both together in a kiss that was long enough to moisten his entire length. It was just as well, because then I separated him from my lips, and sent him riding my pinched digits until he reached his destination. There, I fitted half his body down my back pocket, and walked off to start my day. I didn’t have to push him all the way in. Every time my denim-clad cheeks bounced and bounded, he sank.

Size Tunes 2017

Serenade
Lah lah lah

I’ve had this idea for years. I contemplated it, and never did anything about it, until now. Back then, because I used to go to boards and talk to a lot of people, I got to know a few of them a bit, and as it turns out, nearly every one of them had some musical ability. When I published the collage above, I received a file composed by a blog reader, inspired by it… so the idea of songs inspired by size differences is not at all outlandish, and it’s certainly something a few of us have thought about, and done more than just think about.

So… it’s high time we have us a music contest: bit.ly/SizeTunes17

I’m just going to sit here quietly, and while I wait for songs you write about giantesses, or tiny men, or gigantic/tiny feet, or micro-robots, or foxes the size of the solar system, to come my way, I’ll mess around with Garage Band, and see what I can come up with. I can sing my own songs, but when the time comes, I might get someone at fiverr® to do my singing for me. Everyone in my family knows my voice. Or I could just use Audacity to alter my pitch… oh this cracks me up!

Your Shrunken Life With Me

Your_Shrunken_Life_With_Me
Is it so bad? No, it’s wonderful.

This comic strip idea started as a wish to see how many frames I could put together that followed the same idea. I could have kept going after the seventh one, but thought that was a good place to stop. There can always be future strips that depict various activities between a tiny man and his partner. There is no end to what those can be. I’ve always liked thinking about the life of a tiny man when he finds someone that loves and wants him, even at his tiny size, and against every describable odd, because who in the world would want such a small man, not only as a lover, much less a life companion?

A large number of people, as it turns out. I just happen to be one of them, and as Gentle April reader- and writership proved, there are many of us that envision the shrinking of someone, the enduring of that process, the becoming someone for whom then keeping and preserving that small life is a zero-sum game for both parties. I could argue that I’ve always imagined receiving much more than I get. Maybe that’s the way my psyche explains the psychopathy… the pathology… the abnormality of wanting to remove someone from their life, shrink them against their will, and hold them deep in your power for the remainder of their existence, and know, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that you’re doing the right thing for yourself, and for them.

It welcomes analyses. And then it pulverizes them. I certainly have never read a proper explanation of why I am how I am, and why I love what I love. Even if I did, I’m sure there would be elements found lacking in a thorough mental examination. I said I’d welcome it, but I won’t be volunteering for one, any time soon. It’s much more fun to sit in front of my computer for a spell, and create an image that depicts a woman dancing, while there’s a tiny cage dangling from her neck that contains a shrunken man. He may be unable to stand on the dance floor and match her move for move, but they are dancing together, and she would not have it any other way.

In the next frame, she is doing one of my favorite activities, which is reading. Of course I don’t read trashy novels [anymore], but I certainly write smutty stories; so I’m not going to be too hard on her. They are both reading, even though he has to walk the lines, and she has to turn his pages sometimes; off him if they get out of control, or a breeze swirls into the room from the open window, and they flip and slap onto his tiny frame. She finds that living bookmark, and she sets him to rights again. It interrupts her reading constantly, but she wouldn’t have it any other way.

And they share meals together, and he feeds from her fingertip. They shower together, and he stands in her palm to do it. They watch a sunset together, and he tells her about that time he found his dad’s porn stash, and how excited he was, without knowing why… and she tells him about the time she found her dad’s porn stash, and how she only wondered how in the world her body was going to turn from a flat canvas, to the painted curves she saw depicted in nearly every page. He tells her she’s perfect as she is, and she doesn’t need anything changed about her body. She tells him he’s perfect as he is, and he doesn’t need to be any different.

And they kiss, they kiss all the time. And the other one. That one happens all the time as well. Probably after each one of the frames take place. I don’t know. I’m not going to ask them. That would be rude.