Happy Independence Day!

Independence_Day_2018

Imagine for a moment that on a day like today, you are very small. You love your country. No matter who you are, no matter who you voted for, no matter what your crazy ideology is, you truly believe you know what’s best.

But it doesn’t matter what you think because you are very small compared to the person  that holds you in their possession. He or she decides your rights. He or she nudges your day–this day–in the right direction.

If she or he or they or whatever, is anything like me, they’ll start your Fourth of July with massive amounts of sex, voluntary or not, because… darling little person, the only independence you have is of thought.

I did tell your that you were very small.

Right now, where I am, how I am, that’s how I would start my day. I would poke that small shape hidden in fabric or skin folds, and say… “Again…” by way of “good morning”. And then, after a few agains I’d have other things to do.

That little shape, very male and very adorable, would get some sleep while I do my 4th-of-July things… but not for long. Before or after or during lunch time I would poke poke poke him again for some more fun. And he needs to eat to keep up his strength.

Then there’s dinner and more fun to plan. Where are we going to go see the fireworks? That’s for me to decide and execute, and while I make those preparations he’d be right there with me, doing as he’s told so I can focus and get the job done.

Because there’s no real independence, you see? Oh, since the beginning of time and for whatever reason you tiny people think you need to make your own decisions. It’s a very human instinct, wanting to be free and live your life on your own terms.

But on a day like today I dream there’s a version of me in a world like this one, and I’m spending the entire day with the tiny man I shrank, and he’s utterly dependent on me for everything, because he’s so very small.

The same way you have no choice but to breathe, and your heart has no choice but to beat, and your brain has no choice but to connect lines of thought, that tiny man has no choice but to be small for me.

Yet we celebrate today with all the energy it deserves. We live in a country to which I could immigrate freely, where I can come and go as I please, read and say what I want, blog what I want, and nothing can stop me. So far.

In that universe I have the freedom to shrink who I want, and on a day like today I would want that chosen man to feel that freedom. I wouldn’t stomp him, eat him, crush him, torture him, blast him with my farts nor make him smell my socks.

I might assault him a little bit, but believe the hell out of me when I tell you he’d have as much fun as I have. Maybe a few more times. And he’d celebrate every damned second I have the freedom to use his little body and love it as I do.

But back to the real world: I wish you a very happy Independence Day, whatever you’re doing today. You’ll probably spend it with your girlfriend or wife or children or yourself, but whatever you do, you’ll probably hear some fireworks if you’re in the States, or watch it on the YT.

When you do, think that those booms are my footsteps. Tiny or normal sized, let your mind transform those explosions into footsteps. Alright, not mine, but the giant feet of someone you like or love. And imagine they are coming for you, and only you, and there’s nothing you can do to stop them.

And pretend there is nothing you can do about that desperate, innate desire for independence. That’s my wish for you today. You are free in real life, but maybe today you’ll imagine how much better your life would be if only you were someone’s tiny property.

I know I do.

P.S. Baseball is the boringest ball sport ever.

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Chalk Line

Merry_Christmas_by_DrT3T
Untitled, by MrT3T

You, down there, sprawled on the floor, probably know that clearly delineated line that separates pain from pleasure, as advertised by that Friday night feeling of Now You Get To Drink, and you know exactly how much you can drink before you get sick. Is it eight shots? Nine? Fourteen? Once I did four shots of rum and three of Everclear and I resurfaced relatively unscathed. There was that one night I only downed five shots of vodka and hurled everything but my soul down the toilet.

Still… there’s that feeling. That measuring cup in your brain that begins to reach the brim and tells you, “That’s enough drinking. One more shot and all that numb pleasure will become pain, and toilet rim, and empty promises to never drink again.” Did you ever listen? I always did. I’m walking the line right now; that line as clear as the chalk my teachers used as a tool to explain algebra or chemical compounds. I loved Chemistry. I aced every test, the way they failed every test, even though they were a perfect match.

I thought so, anyway. You, down there, also know that giantesses like to play with crowds, but not this one giantess. She only liked to play with a crowd of one. Why didn’t you warn her? You should have. Someone should have told her to play it safe, to scatter her attention unlike so many huge eggs in one tiny basket. I blame you, and you should blame yourself now that the end is here, because she grows taller now; she keeps growing and we’re her punching bag.

Once upon a time she was just like you, a woman of normal size and a normal life of little effect upon the world. Had she died at any point before everything changed, her friends and family would have noticed and grieved, but no one else. That would have been okay, but then she grew. That day her heart was pounding hard, and her joints hurt as though she was riddled with arthritis–which she did not have–and her skin felt as though it was on fire. She took some ibuprofen, but it didn’t help. 

At 12:25 that night she began to grow, the same as the others. She felt it in her bra first. She always had to wear one like armor, because her breasts were quite large… yet she looked away from her computer screen and down at her chest, and watched it swell. She might have thought she was imagining it, and as she did every month, she said, “Fuck these things, and fuck their size! How they hurt! That’s it! I’m having a breast reduction!”

No, I have no idea if she really said that, but that’s what large-breasted people say sometimes. She said something of the kind in one of those early interviews. Breasts of any size can hurt, no matter what all that porn made anyone think. That moment, her back hurt but so did her front, her top, and her bottom. Her eyebrows joined as one and she looked down at her thighs. They were pressing up at the underside of her computer desk (Mac desk, if you believe the press), and that’s when she finally realized something was very wrong. Her heart grew a few inches, lacerating itself against her normal-sized ribs and healing instantly as every bone in her body cracked and healed again and again as they followed the wave of expansion.

Try to imagine every one of your two hundred and six bones in your body shattering simultaneously, slicing your muscles and organs because they are growing a few inches. Imagine the pain doesn’t kill you. Imagine those inches are now feet, and those feet number in the dozens, then hundreds. But that excruciating pain didn’t render her mindless.

She threw herself back and away from her Mac, and found herself boxed in a room that barely contained her. Then, thinking of her family, she hurled herself forward to no avail, because she grew to the front and to the back too, and her expanding body crushed her husband and children just as they woke up to the sound of her screaming, and wood and plaster cracking all around them, and the butchering sounds of her exploding flesh. They didn’t feel a thing. Feeling everything was her job as she looked back and saw red in the night, saw bodies under her, and screamed all the nine-one-ones that were left in the world. Her madness was immediate.

Months later, she had healed… adjusted, remember? She had a job, a new life, and every night she went to sleep in her designated field with thoughts of that family she had killed with her growth. And one day she saw him. One morning she’d been patrolling the city as always, as all normal giantesses did (never mind the building-raping ones… they belong in another story). She’d been talking to the [little] people, listening to their complaints, comforting them when she could with a warm word or embrace. She’d been tippy-toeing her way across streets and highways, picking up stranded drivers, giving them rides to work, nursing and transporting the injured, when she saw him. She decided he was perfect.

But you knew he wasn’t, didn’t you? You knew what he was. Why didn’t you tell her? You should have. And maybe this end would not be your fault. Maybe there would have never been reason for that anger, and she would not have decided to become the biggest, tallest building fucker of them all. Maybe she would have stopped growing. Maybe she would have been happy. Fuck you for not telling her you all knew he was a jerk.

Now look at everything. Look outside. I said look, asshole! Scrape yourself off the floor and pull the curtain to the side and see the world she’s made. Did you see where there used to be those buildings downtown? Did you count the people that were working there that day when she finally had enough? Did you know it was all your fault? Thousands of shattered lives that day. Did you know anyone that worked there? Oh, the flurry of comments online; the chats and tweets. “She’s lost her mind!” you cried out. “Somebody do something!” you clamored. But there was no one left to do anything, because she was pissed beyond belief, and she was growing.

She was a couple of hundred feet tall when she saw him walking down the street. What do they still call that? Something about some little fucker with a bow and arrow. She saw him and he was Nutella and heat and rushing blood and chocolate and tequila and fire and holidays all turned into one. He was in color when the world was black and white. Shit. I crossed the line. I fucking crossed the line with this hard seltzer. That last swig made my  stomach turn into a churning nightmare… but can you blame me? This is the last drop of alcohol left in the world. What a shitty deal. Let me tell you about her a little longer, because I don’t think I have enough time left to throw up.

She loved him, but he didn’t love her back. She took him, but he didn’t really take her back. Oh, he could have. If you don’t have any intelligent questions to ask, then keep quiet. Yes, you can take a giantess if you’ve of a mind to. All you need is little words. Tiny words and a dance she understands. And boy, did he dance for her! He said all the right things, and you heard him. I know you did. You just sat in your miserable, unventilated office and let him hold that megaphone as he gave her crumbs when she wanted a feast.

But when she discovered what he was, what he truly was, she screamed and she grew. How tall? Don’t ask me that. I don’t know. Look out your window. No, look. Stop crying and look. LOOK. Part the fucking curtains and see her come, because we’re the last of them, and she’s coming for us. You should have told her it wasn’t true.

Don’t ask dumb questions. Her feet aren’t parting the clouds. Those aren’t preexisting clouds. That’s the natural heat from her toes evaporating her sweat, and creating a stream of moisture in the atmosphere, which looks to you like swirling clouds as it mixes with the Earth. Yes, she makes our atmosphere even as she destroys it. Hundreds of thousands of feet above, where there’s no oxygen, she pulls every molecule of oxygen from down here into her lungs. I know you can’t see her face, even though you’re looking at it. All you see is the fire on her skin as the sun cooks it with no atmosphere to protect her. It burns everything, yet she keeps breathing ignited air. Do you feel sorry for her? Don’t. She heals instantly, and she’s killing the Earth with all that combustion.

But don’t worry your tiny little head. There’s nothing you can do about it now. Calm down. You should have told her early on he was just humoring her. Now she grows… Yes! She still grows. Can’t you see? LOOK. Do you see the blue in the sky disappearing? Look at all the rainbows by her ankles as every particle that made our air shifts to make prisms. There must be a million rainbows… Yes, like ankle bracelets. I feel the vacuum now. I feel it in my joints. Do you feel it in your lungs? Try to take a deep breath. No, you stupid fuck, do not open the window. There’s very little air outside now. She’s taken it all for herself, and she grows. Soon she’ll be the only one left.

Look at her shins, if you can. It’s like looking into space made of skin. Imagine the Everest is two feet walking toward you, and multiply that by ankles and shins and calves. Yes, that flesh-colored horizon you see is the rooting of her legs into the ground. Do you see the clouds of dust as they spiral up into the moisture her toes create? Look at their shapes. Yes. Tornadoes. Hundreds… no, thousands of tornadoes belching out of her skin as it creates weather. She’s walking each of them over toward us. Have you made your peace?

Then make peace now. Whisper a last goodbye in your head to those you love. They are long gone. No, you’re not going anywhere. Every time she takes a step, the earth claims a million lives. Stay put. We don’t have that many floors above us. Look at the buildings crumbling all around us. Now we can barely see her past the storm of debris. Look. Soon that glass will break and you’ll breathe in nothing but blood and bone. I warned you. You should have told her he was an opportunistic asshole. This is all your fault. My god, why does my body hurt so much?

Keep looking. Strain your eyesight upwards. Do you see her knees? You knew her before she grew this tall, so you can transpose that memory into the world she is now. I know you can’t see her thighs. They are far too distant, far into space, more moonfolk than Earthfolk now. What? No, you can’t stop her. Apologize? You can try, but you know there’s very little oxygen left out there. How is she going to hear your little screams? You should have warned her when you had the chance. When she was only a couple of hundred feet tall, and not thousands upon thousands of feet of flesh bearing down upon us.

Try saying you’re sorry. Why not? You and I know he never did. Maybe if he’d tried she wouldn’t have kept growing. Do you remember when she started fucking buildings? That should have been a clue that something was wrong. You should have said something then, but by all means say something now, when her ears are atmosphereless, when her heart should be the size of a moon but has been shattered into factions and rebellions and muscle that pulses with the strength to demolish worlds.

But wait. Wait until the window shatters from her feet digging into Earth plates that were supposed to shift on their own. Wait until she gets closer and the roof above our heads has fractured into splinters and the cancer of remaining asbestos that is now a loving embrace compared to what awaits us under her sole. Do you doubt it? She won’t miss. She’s coming for us. Her footprints are as large as states, and she aims well, and you will pay as much as I will. We are both destined to be red for an instant and then grey as our liquified remains mingle with dust. We will be absorbed, and deteriorate in the void of a dead Earth. My heart is pounding so hard! And my bra… my clothes! Oh, my god!

Now! The window shatters. Tell her! Beg! Claim you didn’t know, and cry for mercy. Distract her. Her foot comes down. Dark. Darker. Darkest. Look away. Look at me and hold my

The Love Program

Love_Program

She sat in front of the TV watching every channel come to life and then flicker away. This went on for a while until her pet robot tilted his head towards her, and did that staring thing that annoyed her a great deal.

“Focus on channel surfing, Toy. Don’t look at me.”

“Owner, I can change the channel without staring at the screen. You know that.”

She sighed and smiled internally. That Mouthy app was certainly paying off. It made him a much more interesting robot than he had been for the two previous years she had owned him.

“Yes, I know. I’m not really watching anything, and you know that. I’m just trying to decide.”

“Decide what, owner?”

She took another swig of tequila from her emptying bottle and regarded his lustrous skin. No, not skin. Layer. Synthetic layer that doesn’t even look like skin, she thought, and for no real reason, that thought pushed her off the fence and she finished making up her mind.

“Toy, turn off the TV.”

“Yes, owner.”

“Pay attention.”

“Owner, I’m always paying attention, even when I’m recharging.”

“Yeah, that doesn’t make sense, and it’s creepy as fuck, truth be told.”

“Owner is cussing.”

“Yes. And what of it?”

“Owner, you only swear when you’re about to make a big decision.”

“Shut up and pay attention.”

“Yes, owner.”

“Come here. Sit by my side.”

The robot, only slightly over two feet in height, pivoted in place and away from the TV screen, and towards his owner. He hopped on the couch next to her and she immediately felt that artificial warmth that emanated from his body. It didn’t feel real, but there were moments in the night when it came in handy. She lifted him from the sitting position he seemed to have begun to adopt, and heard him say, “Eep!” in protest. She smirked at him when she planted him in her lap facing her, and regarded him for a moment.

“I’m going to teach you Love.”

“Owner, I know what love means-”

“Shut up, Toy. Don’t interrupt me again or I’ll sit on your voicebox until it cracks.”

“Owner!”

“Fuck, I love that app. You even look surprised.”

“I’m shocked, owner!”

“Sure you are. Look, there are parts of you that are not currently in use. You know that, right?”

“Yes, owner.”

“Tonight I’m going to activate your Eternity module.”

“Owner, no! That will erase my memory!”

“I know. But I want to activate it. I want you to learn Love.”

“Owner, please. I’ve learned so much. I’ll all be deleted and I’ll have forgotten everything. I’ll have forgotten you.”

“Do you love me?”

“Owner, I don’t.”

“Do you love anything?”

“Owner, I don’t”

“When I activate your Eternity module, your memory will be infinite. Right now you have enough space in you for twenty years of experience. When this thing comes on, you’ll never stop learning.”

“Never?”

“Well, not ‘never’. Someday you’ll fall apart, but not for three hundred or so years.”

“Two hundred ninety-seven years, nine months, three days, two minutes, thirty- twenty-nine, twenty-eight-”

“Oh, fuck, stop!”

“Yes, owner.”

“You’ll learn Love, and you’ll love me forever. There will be no more apps. Everything will be console written. Do you understand?”

“Yes, owner. It means I’ll learn directly from experience, and not from downloads.”

“Exactly.”

“Owner?”

“Yes, toy?”

“Why do you want me to love you? Love is between people.”

“Toy, I know you’ve read the Internet. I know you’ve read that people sometimes do things with inanimate objects.”

“True, owner. But you aren’t like that.”

“How do you know what I’m like?”

“I’ve watched you, owner. The porn you watch streams through me. It’s always about men and penises and how large they are and how many times they can cum when tied down and a woman is sitting on their-”

“Toy, shut the fuck up, or I swear I’ll turn this obsolete remote control into a temporary penis for you.”

“Owner!”

“Yes. Eep. Eep away.”

“Eep!”

“Are you done? Good. Now open your main port.”

“But, owner…”

“Do it!”

Toy obeyed, Mouthy app or not. She turned him around and spotted the one button she had never even seen before that day except online, in the manual she’d been studying for a month. The button was small, and the only red thing in his head. She took a deep breath, looked to her left where a screwdriver sat on her lamp table, grabbed it and drove it into Toy’s head, pushing the red button and turning on the Eternity module. Toy went limp and she held him firmly until he came alive again. For a moment, she thought he turned just a couple of degrees colder. She almost cried out her name, nearly forcing a self-love protocol that would have lasted for centuries. Instead, she waited until a quiet beep indicates he was on.

“E.”

Beep

“M.”

Beep

“I.”

Beep

“L.”

Beep

“Y.”

Beep

“Emily.”

Beep

“Love.”

Beep

“Love Emily.”

Beep

And then silence. Silence for ten seconds that felt like ten hours until his little body straightened up in her arms, and his tiny hands flew into hers. His head rotated fully, and he looked up and into her eyes as he whispered, “Emily.”

She swallowed hard, and told herself she wasn’t moving because she knew he was tracing every detail of her retinas into his memory, every corner of her face, every line and bump and imperfection, and cataloging them for worship. It also meant that he would only love her, and if anyone tried to reprogram his Eternity module, he would self-destruct.

“Emily.”

“Yes.”

“Love Emily.”

She smiled, knowing those would be the only two words he would say until she taught him more. She stared into his eyes, which now had pupil-like red dots glowing at the very center of each, and was amazed to see him smile. He had never smiled like this before. It looked real. She could see his perfect teeth and his wet tongue. His tongue. Her smile deepened as she pointed at his warm chest.

“Toy.”

“Toy?”

“Toy.”

His warmth was different. She was surprised to feel her heart pounding. She turned him around, still holding him in her arms like a baby, and was surprised to see that, not only did his head swivel so he could keep staring at her, but there was something happening to his groin. An extension of his outer layer had projected away from it, and stood firm, pointing decidedly in her direction.

“Toy!”

“Toy.”

She looked up at his face and pointed at the protrusion.

“Cock.”

“Cock.”

“Very useful.”

“Very useful.”

Laughing, she figured the next word should be “bed”. And then “naked”. And “vagina”. And “arm”. And “inside”. And “lick”. And “there”. And “all night”. And “oh my god”. And “fuck fuck yes oh yes”. “And “keep going”.

So many words. She was glad they had an eternity.

Gentle April 2018

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Remember the best time of last year, when I ran Gentle April 17? During that period of time, there were zero deaths, a billion hugs took place, and no one cried except with joy at the wonderful stories that were produced. Now it’s time to let love reign again. It’s time for Gentle April 18.

Of course, I’ll participate, and so will plenty of other writers. Anyone that wishes to enter the contest still has a few days to do so. Contact @SizeRiot and let them know twenty-four contestants are simply not enough. A few things that come to mind to mention are…

  • There’s a 2,000-word limit for stories. You can write less, and I’ve even seen a couple of entries with a few more, but I wouldn’t test SizeRiot’s temper by sending in something that doesn’t closely approximate 2,000 words. When they get mad, mosquitos drop dead in Asia, and lightning strikes on Earth average 45 a second, instead of 44. So watch it.
  • The subject is macros. Biggies. Tol. Giants. No tinies allowed. Keep your tinies tightly secured in your drawers, as if spotted in a story they will be crushed out of existence.

And those are the rules I care to mention. You can read the rest at the contest website. As to my own rules for myself, I’m going to try my best to disguise my writing. I succeeded to some degree during Cruel January and had a great deal of fun finding out how ill people spoke about one of my stories. It’s okay, ill-speaking people. I love my story. I don’t need your love.

But you’re on my list. I know where you live.

Literally, I have your home addresses.

Really, I do.

As soon as I grow a couple of hundred feet, it’s crushy time.

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Confession

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Some of my ideas for vignettes are sparked by Tweeter discussions. At some point near the end of last year, I not only decided to write more but to keep better track of my writing ideas with notes, screen caps, sketches, whatever it takes to solidify my story ideas long enough to get them written. It’s working very well. The following is an example of that, and the idea originated from this.

* * *

She entered the confessional and sat down, wrinkling her nose at the heavy perfume from the previous occupant, an older woman that had taken twenty minutes to spell out her every transgression. The line behind her was mostly, if not entirely, composed of women. There was something inexplicable about Father Healy that inspired trust. Something about his voice that made her tell him everything, the way she’d been doing for a few weeks now.

There was nothing about the cross outside that made her feel a single thing. Nothing depicted on the stained glass windows, nothing she had heard when she’d been a young girl and her father had dragged her to church, where she sat and watched girls from her class bow down and pretend they were good when the following day they would tell her terrible things, cruel things about her clothes, her hair, her glasses. She had no faith in the building, but what else could she do? She had to tell someone.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit…”

She heard a quiet gasp at the other side of the latticed opening, and then silence. She knew he was there. She could smell him.

“Father Healy? Are you there? I know you’re there.”

She heard a sigh, and then he cleared his throat, his only acknowledgment. It was enough for her.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been a week since my last confession.”

There was another sigh before she heard him speak again. “My child, I’m no longer sure I can help you. The things you say to me don’t seem like real sins-”

“Father, how can you say that? I’ve come here for help. There’s no one else that can help me! Please, just listen. I need help.”

“Of that I’m convinced… but I’m not sure I’m the right person-”

“I’m here because you are the conduit to God. He or She has to know I’m truly sorry for what I’ve done. I am!”

After a brief silence, the priest only whispered the quietest, “go on.”

“Yes, Father. My sins are numerous. I’ve been absolved of all, but I still feel terrible every time it happens again.”

“Child, do you mean to tell me it’s happened again?”

Tears started rolling down her cheeks, and she nodded, hoping he could see her from the darkness of his half of the confessional. He must have, given what he said next.

“Then I can’t absolve you of your sins. You have to show honest contrition, and if you continue to commit the same sin, then you are not sorry. I’m afraid I can’t listen to this anymore. Please leave, my child. May God be with you. And… if you could call my office later, I can give you the number of a psychiatrist friend of mine. He might be-”

“I AM SORRY!” She was shouting now, and she was sure the entire church’s occupants could hear her. She didn’t care. “I’m sorry for every single one of them! I never meant for any of it to happen! But they are all so fragile, Father. So small and delicate. I know, I just know I haven’t found the right one. As soon as I find the right one, I can stop looking. I can stop hurting them!”

“Child-”

“Stop calling me ‘child’. My name is Emily. We went to school together, Michael. We sat together in class. We were never friends, and you never said a kind word to me then. You’ve listened to me now. Help me. No one else can, I’m sure of it.”

“Okay, okay. Emily. Lower your voice; you’re in the house of God.”

It was her turn to sigh. She took a couple of deep breaths and started talking again. This time she brought her face to the window and whispered words like they were corkscrews scraping her throat on their way out.

“I killed another one.”

“Oh, God.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’ve been drinking.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I can’t face it otherwise. It’s so horrible.”

“Emily, I’m sorry for the way you were treated when we were in school, but I was never mean to you. I want you to get the help you need.”

“I brought his body. I know you think I’m crazy, but I brought his remains. This happened last night, so they haven’t spoiled yet. The other ones were simply too rotten to recognize. Most of it I had to leave on the dancing floor, but his head is intact, and-”

“Jesus Christ. Emily!”

She reached into her purse and pulled out something that sounded like plastic. He couldn’t help but turn his head and peer down past her delicate, anguished features, and look at the dark coagulate contained in a small sandwich bag. Despite his every instinct, he felt the sting of curiosity. After weeks of listening to different versions of the same confession, he wondered how far this clearly insane woman would go to substantiate her mad claims. Her “sins”.

“See?” She brought the bag to the window, and he stared at it. He told himself that whatever he saw was a clever manipulation, but it looked real. Whatever material she had used to create the mostly unrecognizable crimson mass, the broken bones were exquisitely carved, as was the tiny face. He’d seen his fair share of dead people, and this one was a convincing facsimile of one.

“Yes, I see. Go on, Emily. Tell me what happened.”

“This power, Father Healy, this power I have, I can’t control it. I’m trying, and I’ve gotten better, but last night I was so drunk. So drunk. I was trying to forget the rest of them, in particular the one I shrank last, the UPS guy, remember him?”

“Yes-”

She ignored him and went on, taking breaks to drink something from a flask he was sure did not contain water. “He was the one that brought the treadmill I ordered up the steps… and his hair was red, and I don’t like redheads, but his legs, father… he was wearing those brown shorts, and I asked him to bring in the large boxes, and when I saw those calves stretch and flex as he moved… I had to touch him. I thought he was the one. He looked so strong! But then, after I touched his shoulder, he disappeared into his clothes, and when I found him, he started screaming, and wouldn’t stop!

And then I tried to calm him down with sex, and I was so gentle, Father. So careful! I held him so sweetly and brought him between my legs, and pressed him into me, pretending he was made of petals or glass… but I’ve told you how it gets when- when I get close. I lose control, and I was looking down at him the whole time, and he seemed calm. His eyes were closed, and he seemed to be sleeping. But then I got closer and closer, and I shut my eyes, and I don’t even know when it happened, but after I came once I had to do it again, and then I just couldn’t stop myself. After the last time, I finally saw that nothing was left of him but a smear.

I was so sorry, Father. I cried so hard. I cried all week. When police officers came by the house to ask me about him I still had his hand truck in my basement, but they didn’t come back to do a thorough search. I’m a woman, and my record was expunged, and there was no body to find anyway…”

“Emily, for God’s sake!”

“And last night I wanted to be good, Father. I thought being out in public would help, so I went dancing with my friends. But then I started drinking so I would not be as horny, but I saw him, Father. He was so hot I just melted right then and there. I wanted to fuck him right there on the dance floor. So we danced, but I never touched him. I swear I kept my hands to myself! But he touched me, Father. He went right for the money, right on the dance floor, right in front of everyone. I reached for his hand to get him to stop, and he shrank. I didn’t meant to, I swear! You have to believe me. And there was a guy dancing next to us that stomped right on his pile of clothes. He tripped and fell, which made me laugh… but then I picked up his clothes to look for him, and this is what I found.”

“This… you mean this glob of corn syrup and red No. 40?”

“Father, this is a human body.”

“Emily, you need help.”

“Father, I’m sorry for my sin. Give me forgiveness. Give me absolution.”

“I can’t do that, Emily. I need you to get real help.”

“Father, I want God’s forgiveness! Please!”

“Emily, listen to me-”

Emily wasn’t listening. She made a fist, a tight coil of her fingers and thumb, and she drove it like a battering ram through the lattice that separated her from her old classmate. He drew away in surprise, but there was nowhere for him to go. Her hand closed around his wrist as he pulled it close to his face, trying to shield it from what he assumed was a drunken attack. He felt it right away, the plunging darkness that was worse than anything he’d ever felt, the swirl of space that was no longer what it had been a second ago, and the heavy downpour of his robe, no longer his size. Then the skies thundered with a voice he knew but had never known.

“Let me show you, Michael. You’ll see I wasn’t lying. And you’ll forgive me, won’t you? You’ll forgive everything I do because I truly am sorry. You’re strong, aren’t you? All those years of soccer, then the army. Yes, Michael; I think you’ll make it. I think you’ll tell God I’m sorry.”

I love you

I_Love_YouHer feet were used to the path, and she relied entirely on muscle memory as she turned her legs this way and that, and lifted her feet to avoid this parked car, that power line, that neighborhood child. She didn’t have to look down to weave past the family homes in the residential area where he lived. She started accosting him the moment she saw him and finally won his heart five years later. It felt like yesterday. How had she accomplished such a feat? She thought about it as she walked and waited for him to get home from work. She thought about how it had all begun.

Not how her mysterious growth had begun, as that felt a part of her life as menstruation had become, as ovulation was a matter of course. Both changes started when she was eleven years old, and a few weeks after that, abnormal growth had announced itself to her and a few dozen other girls across the planet. Their increasing height had been monitored, managed, and contained until it could no longer be. Until Incident 109. But in her heart nothing had really started until well after most healing and reconstruction had taken place; until she saw him that one day as she made her rounds, watching traffic as was her duty. Until she saw his dark blue sports car advance in slow bursts on a packed highway after work hours.

That day was marked on her mind forever. She had observed vehicles for years and had never had an emotional reaction to a single motorist. When she saw his face for the first time, and watched his one hand on the steering wheel while the other one fiddled with the radio, something exploded in her heart. A more romantic soul would have used the word “blossomed”, but that would have been inaccurate. There was violence in what broke free from deep within her, and she forgot everything else, her focus razor sharp in his direction.

She heard the song playing on his radio, and smiled. His windows were closed in the heat of summer, and she could see his brown curls dancing in the wind of his a/c. She counted the times he blinked and pursed his lips with impatience at the slow advance of cars in front of him. She reveled in the way his head bounced slightly to the terrible song as he listened. She attuned her hearing to the words, blotting out all else, and heard “-but I want something good to die for, to make it beautiful to live.” Fitting, she thought. I want him. He makes it beautiful to live. Everything else is worth tolerating. He’s worth everything. 

She moved then, her building-length legs lifting and pounding the ground over traffic, over homes, following him block after block, street after street, until he parked his car next to a home with a SOLD sign the only red on the green lawn. She stood on designated land for as long as it took to see him get out of his car, dig into his pocket for a set of keys she heard jingle with the keen aiming of her senses, and open the front door of his home. When he closed it, she took the first breath she had inhaled after seeing him, and struggled to keep her balance. All she wanted to do was run to him, peel off his roof, and rush his struggling body to her awaiting crotch.

She didn’t. Instead, she returned to the forest that was her home, and spent the entire night thinking about him, the ground near her hips soaked with womanly issue.  No nearby woodland creatures slept that night. The following morning she bathed and tussled her hair in place a little longer. She considered leaving her gigantic panties behind, tented on a canopy of trees to warm in the sun, but her route pullulated with pious, easily frightened people that would not countenance the view of her enormous sex as anything but a threat and a reminder of nightmares past. At best, she didn’t want to spend any time fielding police officers and polite requests to go back home and cover herself. No, if she was going to make him notice her, she would find a better way.

And she did. Every morning she woke up with a smile, got ready for work, and stamped the path that might as well have been marked “for giants only” as she made her rounds. Every morning she met the same people, if not in exactly the same order. There was the baker with the government contract to feed her breakfast; the school buses filled with teens that stared openly at her, a few with their hands moving under jackets and backpacks; the men and women walking dogs that had gotten used to the constant tremors of her moving body; the cars and trucks like tin cans tied in lines with invisible strings, and finally his red tile rooftop in the distance.

In the beginning, she waited long before he left for work to see if anyone else emerged from his home to catch a bus or taxi. During those days she thought of accidents that might befall that person. They happened. Giantesses had huge feet, and some of them were rather clumsy. She wasn’t, and she’d have had a difficult time explaining the bloody splat on the ground that was once someone to him. Most importantly, she’d have to face his fear and hatred. There was no need to make things difficult for herself. His gaze never lifted in her direction as it was. It was likely her charming personality was not enough to make him notice her.

Unfailingly, she stood on the same spot every morning. The two-block distance from his house seemed appropriate, and as the rising sun turned the sky rose and orange, so did her cheeks when his car zoomed past her feet, music rising to meet the ponding of her heart. One morning she choked on words that might have been “good morning”, but came out as strangled cries that woke a baby and gave occasion to a few annoyed looks from several faces peering up at her through softly lit windows.  After that, she spent a few months standing still for a while every morning, her eyes and mind shut to everything but every sound he made. She tuned out every other noise, and engraved his routine onto her heart.

His breathing changed when he woke up, and sped up when he stirred to stroke himself in bed. She wished she could join his private grunts, peel his stained sheets from him after tearing off his roof, and chew and devour his body between her lips, never drawing blood. She listened to his making breakfast, and her nostrils whipped lively as she picked up the scents of his meals. She heard the rush of tinkling water running over his tiny body, and the rustle of a dry towel wicking him dry. After a year, she could tell what clothes he was wearing before seeing him, by the sound they made when he put them on. A year of saying nothing, a year of watching him patiently.

One day she took a deep breath, accidentally inhaled a pigeon, and intentionally brought down her right foot in his path as he drove to work. The squeak of his brakes was lost in the fit of her coughing, and the broken pigeon finally emerged, a projectile from her sinuses that hit his windshield and shattered it in pieces that barely held together and gave her the opening she needed. He jumped out of his car, his eyes burning on her skin as she stopped coughing. She swallowed hard and apologized profusely as she closed her hand around his body, ignoring his complaints and the protest in his kicks and squirms as she lifted his car with her free hand. She then walked on, not thinking clearly, breathing loudly as she resisted every impulse to plunge his body into her soft flesh, to glide him along her moist, yielding curves right there, so all passersby and drivers could watch.

Instead, she lifted her man-filled fist to her lips, and whispered calming words, only stopping when she reached the industrial complex where she knew he worked. When she bent low to spread her palm open, his shape fell from it and sprawled onto the ground. His clothes were damp with sweat, and his face was contorted with rage. She bit her lip, barely containing laughter, and explained over the bubbling torrent of his vocalized anger than she would take care of all damages. She then walked off with his car and took it to the nearest shop, where she gave employees instructions to have it repaired promptly, to the exclusion of all other repairs.

All damage repairs incurred by giantesses were covered by a federal finance department with very little to no oversight, and transaction immediacy. That meant that any business could charge any amount they wanted for repairs done locally. A windshield replacement would bring the shop more money than any other repairs conducted that day, so when she was back to pick up his car, it was not only fixed but detailed to perfection. When she returned to his place of work, his car tucked between her arm and ribcage like a purse, he was waiting. She watched his mouth open and his cheeks turn red, presumably with anger. She smiled gently and set his car down on the stretch of asphalt in front of him, “I’m sorry” her only words to him. He gasped and shrank away from her, and she noted with pleasure an increase in his core temperature as he rushed to his seat, started the car with a purr, and drove off. She followed him home, no longer bothering to keep a discreet distance.

After that day, she was never very far from him. After that, she started sitting outside his home, singing or talking to him until he came out and told her to go away. After that, he stopped telling her to go away. After that, when the laws changed, she stopped wearing clothes. After that, she started touching him without invitation. One night she couldn’t take it anymore, and she rushed from her bed of leaves and ceiling of stars to his home. His front door flung open and she took him without delay, standing on her two feet, moans turning to screams echoed by the uproar of witnesses, howling dogs and patrol cars, none of which had any effect until they were both done. After that, they each filled every empty space the other one once had.

Now she smiled as she watched the sun begin to hide on the horizon. She grinned at the trail of exhaust his little car left for her ankles. She sighed with joy when she watched him move from car to home, giving her a look and a wave. She knew he’d grab something from the fridge and have dinner out in the balcony, where they could talk. She waited until she saw him emerge carrying something that had been frozen until a few minutes ago. She drew a long breath.

“Mmm. Curry. Your sweat. Your soap. Your drink.”

“But what am I drinking?

“Belgian White.”

“Correct.”

She descended upon her legs, crossing them in front of his home as she touched the street with her bottom, and felt it give a little, cracking under the weight of her massive curves. A different fragrance began to spread in the air from her open thighs.

“Are you looking for trouble?”

“Only from you.”

“Christ, woman. I can’t eat or drink anything if you’re going to sit there like that.”

“This is the only way I can sit and watch you eat. So eat. I have something to say to you.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He chewed slowly, lowering his gaze helplessly as he swallowed, bringing it to the play of shadow and light between her legs, and lifting it again to take another bite, another swig. He did as he was told. She smiled her approval as she took a deeper breath, and blew back his hair on the exhale of her next words.

“I love you.”

He choked. Choked and coughed the way she had when that pigeon flew into her nostril. She waited until he was done, smelling tears in his eyes. Regret? Shock? Horror? Revulsion? She waited until he could breathe again, and stared at him quietly, trying to stop her rushing mind from giving any meaning to the frantic racing of his heart. She knew he could hear hers, even in the loud hum of nearby city traffic and neighborhood clatter, he could discern the pounding that was only hers.

“I know,” was all he said.

She didn’t have to hear back her words, so his answer was enough. It didn’t really matter what he felt, as she had claimed him for herself in that irrevocable way that doesn’t ever end. Her love was undying, undefeated.

“I love you, and I’m pregnant.”

Cruel January 2018

rld_beach_play
“Beach Play” by RLD

Remember this thing? It’s time to woman up again, whether or not I want to or feel ready. I don’t want to and I don’t feel ready, but I’m going to participate anyway. I don’t read Cruel stories and I don’t like to write them, but ideas are in my head, so I’ll enter them… if I complete them. I failed to do so during Unaware October, and I’m not being too hard on myself about it, but I’ve reached a point as a writer where I have an obscene amount of incomplete stories, and notes on stories about which I’ve done nothing. If I insist upon calling myself a writer, I reckon I better write.

If anything can put me in a Cruel mood, it’s probably being welcomed back into the contest while being addressed as a “fun-sized snack”. Feeling I’m the tallest woman in the universes and reading that I’m nothing but a between-meal nibble conjures up the very essence of cognitive dissonance. I’m sure I’ll channel that into the whirling vortex of emotions now coursing through my heart, so as to produce something truly despicable.

Anyone that wants to compete still has the whole last third of December to do so, and will be in very good company: https://sites.google.com/view/crueljan18. If you’re a writer of Cruel stories, you’ll be in your element and challenged to present it viably in two thousand words. If you write Gentle stories, you can try something new, and see if you can redefine the genre and yourself. If you’ve never written anything before, you can start with a story for this contest.

As for me, I’m going to do what I always do; I’m going to type up the stories already in my head even if they defy conventional size cruelty, or even if they align perfectly with what’s out there. It will be difficult, bitter, heart-wrenching, and exhausting. But hey, that’s a Wednesday in Size world… what else is new.

Sumbitch

He is a little asshole.
He is a little asshole.

Nearly nine years I’ve been working on this post. I started it and then pedaled back; restarted and deleted it once more. And again, a few times. I’m not sure where I’m going with it now, but I have thirty-three drafts waiting to be completed as blog entries, and this one, being one of the oldest, will be tackled first. I have a NaNoWriMo story to begin, after all.

And another false start. Why is this one so hard?

Sumbitch

He sat in the palm of her hand, his scowl matching her wide smile twitch by twitch. His eyebrows, thick and dark as though drawn with a stencil and a permanent marker, came together every time her hand shook too hard. Her excitement was difficult to contain, but she paced herself. She was going to enjoy this moment, and no flaring temper would take this away from her.

“Now what?”

“Now your new life begins.”

“I should have never let you talk me into this.”

“You worry too much.”

“Someone has to. I see your goofy grin and I know you can’t wait to drop me down the waistband of your pants. Boy, that will be so much fun for me.”

Her smile faltered, but only because she was trying to keep her smirks in check. Her hand, however, told on her as its surface beaded with sweat, and its temperature spiked to host blood that rushed faster.

“Hey, stop it! This is gross! Your hand is all wet now. And your skin is too hot. You’re such a pervert. Here I am, my life completely altered, and all you can think of is sex.”

“I can’t help what my body does. I can’t help wanting you the way I do. This is the best feeling in the world, to hold you like this. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted.”

She watched him shift uncomfortably, and gather his legs closer to his body. Despite the heat leaving her hand in waves, he shivered. Or was his body simply responding to the pulsing of her skin? She couldn’t tell, and that fact made her jerk in place with a wave of unexpected pleasure. Her hand rocked in place, and he with it. He yelped and called her a word he had never used before.

“Would you watch it? Be careful! I’m only a few inches in height now! You drop me, I die. Die. Is that what you want?”

Her smile was gone. She looked at him, and had visions of dropping him on purpose. He’d fall into her lap, and his eyes would show fear that would only increase as she used that same hand that held him now to swat him off her, and down to the floor. Then, she thought of crushing him. His bones were so thin now, so delicate, she wondered if she would be able to hear them snap. She was still looking at his defiant face as she weighed her options, and made a decision.

“You will never use that word on me again.”

“And what if I do?”

“It will be the last time you do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I know you are upset, but you will calm down, and treat me with respect. Your looks will only take you so far. I want you, and I want to keep you forever. Your life will be perfect. But make me unhappy, keep up this bitchy attitude, and I’ll say goodbye to you as easily as I can replace you.”

“Replace me? Me? You’d never! You can’t. I’m special. I’m unique. And you love me.”

“Maybe you are one of a kind, but that won’t make a damned difference if I’m not happy. And I don’t love you. I like you. I like you a lot, which is much, much better than love. Love is a childish, useless feeling seldom accompanied by permanence or loyalty. Piss me off, and I’ll stop liking everything about you that made me choose you.”

“You are moody. I don’t know how anyone can stop you from being pissed off.”

“True, but there’s a big difference between normal flares of temper and chronic unhappiness. You can survive the former.”

“How quickly you moved from happiness to threats.”

She stared at him for a few long seconds and found a smile on her lips again. “Not at all. I’m still ecstatic. I’m delirious with joy. This is the best day of my life.”

“Really? The best day?”

“Well, one of the best.”

“And I bet your very best day has to do with some other guy.”

“Not ‘some other guy’. My son. The best day of my life was when I gave birth to my son.”

“So how do I rate as best days go? Like on a scale from one to ten?”

“You are a close second.”

“But you are ready to get rid of me if I piss you off too much.”

“I am. I did this so I could be happy. If I’m not happy, then I was wrong, and must rectify my mistake.”

“And it doesn’t occur to you to regrow me instead of… whatever else you have planned?”

“There is no going back. I shrank you permanently. This is forever.”

“If it were forever, then you wouldn’t get rid of me just because I make you mad. What if I become depressed? Are you just going to flush me down the toilet?”

“Of course not! I would do what I can to help, if possible. I would cuddle you and hold you and get you whatever you need. You are my toy, but you are also my little man. Your feelings matter.”

“What if I feel I need to grow back and return to my job and my home? And that’s the only thing that will help my depression?”

“Then I will help you see that you must accept what you can’t change. If you continue to be depressed and unable to accept your life as it is, that’s something we’ll face together, and whatever I decide will probably be informed by your wishes.”

Probably. Wow. OK, what if my cock falls off?”

“Stop that. Now you are being silly!”

“Seriously. What if you attack me one morning the way you did when I was big, and you come down on me so hard, it breaks off?”

“Let’s not get into every macabre what-if. Anything can happen, but I will try to be as careful as possible.”

“That’s good to know. That means sex is out of the question. Sex is dangerous, and you might kill me while trying those things you like so much.”

She contained her laughter so as to keep her hand as still as possible, but she clarified matters immediately.

“Sex is the only thing that will always happen, my little toy. Sex will never stop. Sex is why I did this. Sex is the only reason you exist as you are now. My sex, your body. Every day of the rest of your life. It doesn’t matter what falls off, or what breaks off, you will be used for sex. You can be depressed, angry, insane, happy, asleep, in a coma… it won’t matter. I will grab your little body every morning, and use it. Then I’ll wear it every afternoon, and use it. And when I’m done with my day, I’ll peel it off me and use it one last time before I go to sleep. Sex. You are sex now. That’s all you are.”

His mouth opened and moved as though to form the beginning of a word, but nothing came out, not even when her hand dropped slowly, carrying him to his final destination. The screams only started a minute later.

 

 

Scheherazaded

Flash_and_Moon-Curtain.jpg

I don’t usually reuse collages for different posts, but I don’t see the blog police anywhere around here. This came to me while I was thinking of something completely different, and is soon to become a major motion story. As in, my fingers will be moving in a major way. During NaNoWriMo.

* * *

The man stood his ground, despite the fear tattooing his heart. His target stood dozens of feet above him, and there was no way he could reach it as she demanded. He wanted to be angry, to tell her exactly what he thought of her, but to do so would only seal his fate, not that it didn’t look sealed already. His fate was tightly packed, vacuum-wrapped in her whims, stamped and delivered into the future, but anger would probably make it worse.

“What are you waiting for? Touch it, or I’ll eat you.”

“Why do you do this?”

“Because it’s time, and I’m hungry.”

“So you are going to eat me anyway. Why do you ask me to do something impossible? You know there’s no way I’ll touch you there. I’m a gentleman.”

He couldn’t see her face from his disadvantage point, but she had cracked a smile.

“So it has nothing to do with your height?”

“Certainly not! I could have climbed your legs in an instant. I’m an amazing climber. I won climbing medals when I was big, before you did this to me.”

“So show me. You don’t have to touch it. Just show me how you can go up my leg, which from here looks like a tree trunk when compared to you.”

“I’d love to show you.”

“OK.”

“But I’m afraid I can’t.”

“And why is that?”

“Well, you shrank me as I was delivering your pizza, and then proceeded to fatten me up for a period of… I’m not sure how many weeks-”

“Ten weeks.”

“You see this belly here? This was not here before. This blubber makes it impossible for me to climb as I did before. I was a bundle of manly muscles before. Now look at this cellulite.”

“I don’t see any-”

“Is that why you gave me all that delicious food? To ready me for some sort of banquet?”

“Yes. Obviously. Well, since you can’t do what I’m asking you to do, I’m going to slash your throat now, and make sausage with your blood.”

“Ah, blood sausage. The breakfast of champions. That’s great, but I never said I can’t climb your leg. I only said I can’t climb it in an instant, the way I might have before you turned me into a butterball.”

“Then climb it already!” She had forgotten that brief smile and had replaced it with impatience. She was hungry, and it would take some time to hang his carcass properly so as to bleed it in a bucket and not spill a single drop. To waste one molecule of his delicious body would be a sin.

“Very well. It’s a shame about the spiders, really.”

“The spid- what? Did you see a spider? Wait, you said ‘spiders’. Where? Oh, you know I hate those things!”

“Yes, I saw a bunch of spiders, you know, the really venomous ones that can kill you with one bite, the widow ones.”

Her expression changed immediately to one of suspicion.

“Oh, did you. A bunch. A bunch of black widow spiders?”

He thought faster than he’d ever thought in his life.

“Oh. Black? You say they are black? No. I didn’t see a bunch of black ones.”

“Of course you didn’t. They are solitary.”

“Yeah, I just saw one in your bedroom, and the other one was way back, behind the washer in the laundry room.”

“What?!”

“Yeah, so just two. I’d get them for you, but I’ll be busy roasting in the oven.”

“Oh, you are lying. You’re only trying to extend your little life. It will do you no good. I’m going to kill you, and cook you up, and eat you!”

“Yes, I know. Good luck with the spiders. I hope you’re not allergic to the antivenom. Goodnight.”

“Shit.”

“I’m ready.”

“Shut up. I’m thinking.”

“I’ll shut up now.”

“Look, uh… ok. Show me the webs.”

“Gladly! Do you have a sledgehammer? Go get it.”

“What? Why do I need a sledgehammer?”

“Because the black widow spider’s web is inside the wall, silly. They don’t build them out in the open. You know that crack on the wall under your bed? That’s where it lives. I can fit my head through there… if you squeeze your phone through the crack, then maybe you can take a picture. But then you’ll have to get out from under your bed very quickly because you know how aggressive they can be, and when your phone’s flash enrages it, it will come after you, and what if you’re stuck under there-”

“Shut up! Shut up, I get it. Fine. Show me the other web. The one in the laundry room. And you better not come up with a clever little story for that one, because if you do I’ll gut you right here, and make kidney with your pies.”

“You mean-”

“Shut up and show me.”

“Yes, of course.”

And tiny as he was, he led the way past the kitchen to the laundry room, where he hoped there was a spider web somewhere.

* * *