Therapy

58DegreesJuly is going through an identity crisis. Temperatures aren’t record low, but they feel utterly unusual. Not as shocking as spotting a tiny man in my home, and certainly not as delightfully puzzling, that’s for sure. I’ve been trying to find little people since birth (there are pictures of me as a baby, being held by either of my parents, always looking down, searching for who knows who), so if one day I do meet a tiny man as he emerges from a small baseboard door, or my shoe, or my panty drawer (what was he doing there?!), or my cupboard, I’ll- I’ll… what will I do? I don’t know. I’ll let you know as soon as I find out. Also, long ago I considered therapy for “this”, but no more. Why destroy the precious bloom of my fantasies with mental health? Also, I don’t like pistachios. Also, I’m rewatching the World Cup games, just for fun.

* * *

Maxine shifted in her chair, looking uncomfortable. “My back hurts.”

“What happened to your back?”

“In my incredible wisdom, I decided to sit in bed so I wouldn’t fall asleep waiting for the little guy to reappear. But I invariably drift off in a terrible position for my back, and after two nights, it’s killing me.”

“Would you like me to get you a cushion? I have a heating pad in my kit that you can use for the rest of the hour.”

“No, thanks. I’ll be okay. Let’s get on with it.”

“Very well. Let’s go back to what you said about the little guy. You’re waiting for it to reappear?”

“I know how that sounds, okay? But I also know what I saw.” She wanted to add, “He’s not an ‘it’, he’s a ‘him’,” but the addition of those words to her declaration felt self-incriminating and counterproductive.

“During your last visit, you spoke of it as a product of your imagination. A hallucination brought about by stress. Has something changed?”

“No. I don’t know! I’ve been telling you for weeks that I think I’m nuts. During my visits, as you so quaintly put it, like you’re my great-aunt Gertrudis, and we’re sharing a cup of tea, and you’re telling me about the Spanish duendecitos that helped you escape Franco’s military police as they chased you through the woods.”

“The Spanish what?”

“Duendecitos. The diminutive form of ‘duendes’, Spanish for ‘elves’.”

“I see. Maxine, you seem upset.”

“Of course I’m upset! Why do you think I keep coming here? I need help. I need to stop feeling like this. I need to stop needing to find some stupid little guy that doesn’t exist! Can’t you just give me some drugs, like I asked? Just prescribe me some Ambien so I can sleep, and something that numbs me so I don’t think about him, or care about the clues he leaves!”

The therapist sat quietly this time and listened.

“Great. Now I’m talking about the clues as though they are real.”

“What do you think they are?”

“They are things I want to see. They are accidents of nature. Or things I forgot I bought.”

The therapist’s silence nudged Max on. “It’s just… if I’ve forgotten so many things, then there’s something very wrong with my memory.”

“I recall you said there have been a few things you found. A ring, a wreath, a letter written on the back of a used stamp. Have you seen more of these tiny objects?”

Max had not told her therapist the whole story, or mentioned the real number of gifts she kept in a box under lock and key; gifts she inspected almost every night as she marveled at the craftsmanship. Craftswomanship, if she was doing that to herself. Over thirty precious little tokens of… what? Friendship? Showmanship?

They felt like more than that; much more, but she refused to define that feeling. One insanity at a time, please. The first order of business was regaining her ability to sleep, which she had lost to the notion that there was a little man living in her house and making her presents and writing tiny notes for her.

“Maxine. You seem distracted.”

“Huh? Oh, I’m sorry. What was I saying?”

“I asked you about the items in your possession. You mentioned three gifts.”

No, lady. Try over thirty gifts. One for each month, one for each of my birthdays, holidays, and a condolence note when I lost my sister. But I’m never going to admit as much, and I’m certainly not going to show them to you. “Yes, that’s right. Three gifts.”

“Do you mind if I see them?”

“W-why do you want to see them?”

“I’ve heard you talk about these gifts as real, palpable objects you can touch. I’d like to offer my set of eyes if you feel comfortable showing me the objects. That way I can tell you what they seem to me.”

“Yeah, ok.” I’m showing her the crown, but I’m never showing- Shit, what’s wrong with me? She’s only trying to help! Max couldn’t help but hold back. As badly as she wanted peace and a good night’s rest, there was something she could only describe as a feeling of foreboding when she pictured spilling every secret about the events that had been taking place for two years. “I wear the cro- the thing that looks like a crown like a pendant around my neck.”

“May I see the wreath and the note as well?”

“Uh, they… the wreath fell apart, and the note did too after I handled it too much. It’s just as well. I probably just imagined it was a note.”

“That’s unfortunate. I would have liked to see them.”

“Yeah…but here’s the crown.” Max pulled a delicate chain from the front of her blouse. The crown slid slightly, a pendant so light it barely had any effect on the silver links. The therapist stood up from her own plush chair, and approached Max. She bent over her and squinted at her chest, trying to get a good look at the infinitesimal gift.

“Would you mind if I get a closer look?”

“Not at all. Look as closely as you can.”

“Would you please remove the necklace from your neck so I can look at it with my magnifying glass?” The therapist said that while walking towards her desk, which for some reason annoyed Max tremendously.

“I’d rather not”, she said as politely as she could. The therapist seemed surprised, and to Max’s shock, slightly annoyed. “Maxine, I’m only trying to help. I can’t see small things up close-”

“Then put your reading glasses back on, and that magnifying glass will really come in handy.”

“Yes, but the chain around your neck is quite short, and the light in this office is not sufficient for close inspection.”

“Then I’ll stand by the window, in direct sunlight.”

“Maxine, how can I help if I can’t do my job?” The therapist’s voice was pleasant enough, and she was smiling when she said the words, but there was a glint of anger in her eyes that she failed to hide for a fraction of a second; long enough for Max to notice.

“I’m not removing my grandma’s chain from around my neck. If you like to see the ‘object’, then get as close as you like. I don’t mind.”

“Very well”. The therapist walked around her desk, and while she unlocked a drawer and searched for her magnifying glass, Max stood up slowly–her back twinging painfully–and walked over to the window. While she she looked for the lever to open the blinds, they lifted by themselves with a soft whoosh. Max turned around and saw the therapist holding a small remote.

“Fancy”, she said, suddenly feeling uneasy. The therapist only smiled again as she moved closer to Max. She set down the remote on the window sill and held up the most ornate magnifying glass Max had ever seen. Max brushed her hair back from her shoulders, and fished out the tiny crown again. When the therapist reached for it and pinched it between her fingers, Max felt a wave of nausea hit the pit of her stomach.

“See the tiny red jewels?” She asked, when she felt the therapist’s fingers grip the crown and tug at the chain. “What are you doing? Stop!” Max’s own hand flew to the therapist’s hand, closing around it and struggling to keep it close to her chest. She looked at the therapist in disbelief, and saw a look in her eyes, a mixture of rage and desperation that made no sense.

The therapist reached for her with her free hand, and Max realized she was determined to tear the crown away from her. Fury filled her thoughts like a red curtain. She rushed forward, tackling the therapist and sending her sprawling on her back. The fall had the desired effect as the therapist’s grip loosened. Max, having toppled over her with considerable more weight in her much wider hips, rolled off the steamrolled therapist, and scrambled to her feet as quickly as she could.

“You fucker. What the hell do you think you’re doing? What’s wrong with you?” The therapist lay still on the floor, clearly conscious, a calculating look streaming from her eyes like a stock market ticker. She’s… regrouping. Fuck, I have to get out of here. Am I locked in here?

“Max, why did you attack me?” The therapist was lifting herself from the floor, and Max took a couple of steps back. “Max, stop. Please, calm down. I want to help. Why did you push me so hard?”

Max only took a few more steps away from her, too scared to look around for the door, thinking the moment she did, the therapist would rush her, but she had no choice. The moment she glanced around, she looked back long enough to see the therapist lunging toward her desk. Max didn’t wait to find out the reason, and half expected the door to be locked as she turned the brass knob. She heard it click a fraction of a second after she opened it. As she rushed out of the office, the therapist screamed in frustration, but Max ignored her. She saw no one as she ran to the main entrance and then sprinted off again, looking back at the glass and metal doors of that brand new office building, now thankful she hadn’t driven there.

My paranoia finally paid off. I didn’t give her my real address or phone number, and I paid cash. I only wish I hadn’t used part of my first name. But she can’t find me, can she? And what the fuck was that about? Why would she try to rip his crown from my neck? Fucking lunatic. Just my luck. The adrenaline pumping through Max’s body made everything look too bright, and she realized she was still running when she saw people staring at her.

She slowed down and looked around. She had no idea where she was, but she hopped on the first bus she saw. Four bus connections and one hailed cab later, she was home. She didn’t mind having taken the long way home. She didn’t always take her cell phone with her, and now she was glad she hadn’t. There was no GPS, no cell tower, no credit card trail on her.

In the dim light of one single lamp in her living room, she spoke out loud, alone, to someone not herself. For the first time in two years, she addressed the little guy that had been leaving tiny notes containing one single message, always somewhere they could be spotted easily. The notes were always clues to the location of a gift, and there was no explanation for any of the dozens of gifts in her possession.

“Well, that was a bust. I hope you’re happy. I hope you’re real. I saw you… I know it was just a glimpse, a moment, and I was blitzed beyond belief… but I know I saw you standing there, next to my shoes, polishing a scuff mark on one of them. And then you dove under the couch and I couldn’t find you no matter how hard I looked.” Max was speaking softly, affectionately, the way one might address an adorable kitten clawing his way up one’s leg.

“I tried to get some help. Mainly drugs. So I can sleep. For two years you’ve been giving me these precious little presents, and I’m grateful. I’m even grateful if it’s just another personality trapped in my head making these tiny works of art, because there’s real talent and creativity behind all that work. But I really need to sleep. I’d be very grateful if I could have enough sleep sometimes… and thoughts of you make my brain burn like it’s on fire.”

Now Max felt her exhaustion, all the adrenaline that had coursed through her like a tornado added to that devastation, and tears began to fill her eyes; however, her voice did not break. “I don’t know why you’re doing this, or if you need my help, or are recruiting me for your army of giants. If you could let me know, maybe I can get some decent shuteye.”

In the wall, in the darkness interrupted by an otherworldly source of light, the air stirred.

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The Gift

I was having dinner when I thought, What if I were the exact opposite of me? What would I be like? And I thought of the following scenario. It isn’t the exact opposite of me in a couple of ways (and whoever can guess those will win one fabulously lousy t-shirt), but it’s close enough in most ways. This is not my usual writing, so pay attention to tags and categories if you like.

* * *

Once upon a time, there was a man very much in love with his girlfriend. One night he returned home from work very late because he had driven a long way to pick up a very special gift for her. As he entered the house he was carrying the gift in his pocket. He went upstairs with quiet steps, made his way into their bedroom and stood in the doorway looking at the moonlit shape her body made in bed under the blanket. It only took him a moment to realize she was not asleep.

“Honey.”

She stirred and pronounced groggily, “I’m awake.”

“I’m sorry I’m so late. I have something for you. I was going to wait until tomorrow morning to give it to you, but I am kind of nervous about this… we’ve never discussed this before and I don’t… I- can you turn on the light and look at me, please?

She acquiesced as she turned away from her pillow and extended one graceful arm toward her bedside lamp. She flicked it on and looked at him as she blinked away the pain of that sudden light.

“What is it?”

He smiled weakly at her at her and his voice was nearly a whisper. “You know those are new toys they have out now… those little sexual aids for couples that- God, I’m listening to myself now, and I can’t believe I got one. I have- You know what? Never mind. I’ll return it tomorrow. It was stupid not to ask you first.”

“What are you talking about? “Sexual aid“? We don’t need that. We’re doing OK… aren’t we?”

He turned red, his eyes unblinking as he looked at her. It was obvious he was extremely uncomfortable. She didn’t know this, but it felt strange to feel uncomfortable because she was the woman he loved, the woman he was going to share the rest of his life with, and he could always tell her anything. Why was he so out of sorts?

She was now fully awake as she sat up. “Are are you talking about a dildo? D-do you want me to go up your-”

“No! No, no, no, no. No!” He started laughing, yet he seemed more nervous than ever. “It’s nothing like that.”

“So you want me to wear something? I’m fine with that. What is it? A French maid outfit?”

And he said, so quietly she almost didn’t hear him, “No. I’ll just show you.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out the box, and brought it to her.

“Well, it’s a very small box. What can possibly in there that’s helpful to anyone?”

“Look at it.”

She held out her hand and he set the box gently in her palm. She examined, as it looked like it might’ve contained a bracelet. She opened it, half hoping there was a beautiful piece of jewelry in there. That would certainly put me in the mood, she thought as she realized there was no bracelet in it, but a small man, very tiny, only 2 inches in height. He seemed terrified out of his mind, his eyes shut tightly as he trembled helplessly. She shot a look at her boyfriend, suddenly holding the box as though it contained a catastrophic red button covered in bug shit and vomit.

“What the fuck is this? It’s one of those little guys in the news, isn’t it? Those toys, those sex toys everyone’s talking about! Why? Why did you-? Why is there one in our home? Oh, my God! I can’t even- Here, take this box!”

“But it’s for you. I got it for you. I got it so we can try it out… and there was this interview with the inventor…”

“I know. We watched it together two months ago. What did I tell you then?”

He looked at her, clueless, fishing for the memory, knowing his brain would fail him.

“You don’t remember, do you. Do you? You weren’t paying attention to me, as usual! What I said was that little men as sex toys were the most repugnant idea ever. What I said was that men are not supposed to be tiny! They’re supposed to be large, tall, strong, powerful. Defenders of the realm. Look at this ridiculous little thing. How is this helpful in bed? I watched the interview. I know what they do to these little things, but… gross! Just take it, take it away from me. I can’t even look at it again.”

He extended his arm in a perfect rewind of the moment before, and took the box away from her. He stood in place, holding it like it was headlights and he the deer. As she turned to turn off her light, she said, “Are you coming to bed?

“Wait a minute, what am I supposed to do with this?”

“I don’t know. Flush it down the toilet. I don’t care, just get rid of it.”

“Okay.” He looked at the little guy, and felt a pant of guilt he knew would pass, yet he spoke up. “Can we talk about this some more?”

His girlfriend sat up with the speed of a tornado, and spat furiously, “No, we can’t. We won’t. Not ever. I don’t want that thing anywhere near my bed. I don’t want it on my skin, I don’t want it between us, I don’t want it in me or on you. I want it gone.”

There was a flicker of anger in his heart for a moment as he looked down at the little man and said to him in his quietest whisper yet: “What did you do to get in this situation? Why did you sell yourself? What did you get in exchange? Just talk to me. I know you’re not supposed to talk, but fucking talk.”

There was a little voice that came from a box, a warm, beautiful voice he’d never forget when the little man said, “I got shrunk in exchange for medical treatment for my sister. She needed a new liver, and she got it, and now she’s alive, and… I’m here.”

“I’m sorry, little dude. I am. I don’t know what to tell you. This not going to work out–at least commercially–as you might’ve expected.” The little man shrugged as the big man continued, “Actually, you’re probably better off this way, but I can’t take care of you. I work. I have things to do-”

She sat up anew, having turned into her bed again, but still listening to her boyfriend as he addressed what she only considered a disgusting bug. “What the fuck are you talking about? I work too, remember? If you’re thinking I’m gonna take care that little roach…! I don’t take care of bugs. I crush them with my feet. I put poison in their bodies. Get rid of it and come to bed!”

The man walked over to the dresser, carefully closing the box. He opened one of her drawers, as he couldn’t face putting it among any of his belongings. He chose her underwear drawer, as she was sure to see it the next morning if it was there.

No sex took place in their home that night. In other homes, many tiny people were screaming. The next morning she got up to get ready for work. As she fetched a clean pair of underwear, she saw the little box. For a blissful moment, she didn’t know what it was until the full force of the memory came back to her and she swallowed back her repugnance, looked at the box, and shoved it off her panties with the tip of one fingernail.

Unable to face wearing panties that had shared the same confines as the vermin-filled box, she emptied the entire drawerful of undergarments in the dirty laundry basket, and went to work wearing nothing between skin and suit. The next day she went full commando again, and had that day not not been a Friday, things might have turned out slightly differently.

On Saturday she decided to wash her perfectly clean underwear, and disinfect her undergarment drawer. She also planned to make the long drive to the jewelry store and return the little guy, if he was still alive. Her boyfriend was wonderful, but terrible at facing merchandise refunds. She slid the drawer open, paper towel wielded in latex-gloved hand. She picked up the box and put it on top of her dresser. When she was done disinfecting the drawer and replacing its contents, it was already lunch time. She didn’t want to open the box, as she was hoping the little guy was dead so she could flush it down the toilet, but after she ate (and with difficulty, because the stomach kept turning at the idea of having to face this insect of a guy) she returned upstairs and opened the box.

The little man appeared asleep, and looked very dehydrated. He hadn’t had anything to eat or drink, yet he was still alive. He opened his eyes and blinked ever so delicately. The food in her stomach threatened to come back up, and all she wanted to do was smash the box and its contents against the nearest wall.

Instead, she set it down on the dresser rather violently. When her gaze refocused on his shape, he opened his eyes fully, and gave her one single look of understanding. He might’ve wanted to form words, but he didn’t. He nodded slightly as she grabbed the box, and flipped it over. The little man plummeted all the way to the beautifully polished wooden floorboards.

She didn’t wait to see if he had survived the fall. She brought one single flip-flop-clad foot over his minuscule form, and brought it down on him in one fell swoop. At the other side of the rubber sole, she heard a soft crunch, and the unmistakable spread of something both soft and hard she couldn’t face cleaning. She removed her foot from her stained flip-flop and walked away. Limping indistinguishably, she visited the refrigerator to see if she had any ice cream left for dessert.

Project… what was it? Clusterfluff.

This ain’t no Project Myriad. Let’s just get that off your chest. That work is one of my favorites, and I’ve often thought of writing my own set of quick scenes. I even picked out a name I stole for it, but heck if I remember what it was. As soon as I recall I’ll rename the series because I can’t possibly call myself a serious size/fetish/kink writer of close encounters of the speculative kind, and name one of my works “clusterfluff”. Can I? Nah.

This is an exercise in inspiration. I’m trying to jumpstart my writing. The deadline for my #GentleApril18 stories is stalking closer, and I’ve written very little of my story/es. Ideas are not the problem. I have the stories in my head. It’s the sitting down and shoving them into this reality that’s proving problematic.

The_Spirit-by-Dawid_Planeta
“The Spirit” by David Planeta

“So, we’re the two remaining survivors.”
“Yes. Everyone and everything else is dead.”
“Everyone except the giantess, of course.”
“She’ll be coming for us too, you know?”
“I know. Any ideas on what to do?”
“We have to kill her.”
“How do you propose we do that? We don’t have any weapons and you are extremely small.”
“I use to be a chef, back when the world was whole. I think I’ll make her a delicious pot of poisoned turtle soup.”

* * *

Tiny_People_1-by-Mohamed_Halawany
“Tiny People” (collection) by Mohamed Halawany

“Honey, I forgot to tell you that my parents are coming to visit today.”
“That’s great! I look forward to finally meeting them. We’ve been together a few months now, after all.”
“Yes, well… they’re very traditional, and I think they imagined I’d choose someone my size.”
“Then I suppose I better not tell them how we met.”
“They’ve lived in isolation and wouldn’t understand you anyway. They still speak the Old Tongue and not a word of English. It’s so funny, you’ll like it. I’ve been told it sounds like a rat chittering.”
“A-a rat… chittering, you said? Sweetheart, do your parents know what a mousetrap looks like? last night I was in the kitchen and I heard these squeaky sounds…”

* * *

Tiny_People_3-by-Mohamed_Halawany
“Tiny People” (collection) by Mohamed Halawany

“Is this your idea of a first date? Hazmat suits and an expedition to the Deadlands?”
“You said you like science!”
“There’s nothing sciencey about this place! And  it’s creepy. I’ve read here’s where the giants finally came to rest.”
“Yes, thousands of years ago, after they leveled the Earth quenching their lust for blood until nearly every human being was gone. Then they went to sleep.”
“And died. All of them. Can we go now? I’m hungry.”
“I’m about to make you food… but not before I tell you that they’re not dead. They’re only asleep, and only the blood of a descendant killed in sacrifice will awaken them.”
“Then I’m glad there aren’t any of those giants left to awaken them.”
“It’s a recessive gene. One you carry.”

* * *

Tiny_World-by-Manuel_Peter
“Tiny World” by Manuel Peter

“Good Goddess, I hate this job.”
“Hey, it could be worse. Much worse.”
“I don’t see how.”
“You could be working upstairs. Anyone around here that wants to make a good impression overhears you, reports you, and bam you’re gone.”
“Dead?”
“You wish. No, gone. To work in the other mine.”
“Well, it sounds better than this one!”
“You know Boss loves euphemisms, right?”
“Right. Kinda like we’re ‘foot soldiers’ and this isn’t really cheese.”
“Exactly, so keep your trap shut or you’ll end up carting out heavy loads from somewhere that isn’t really a chocolate mine.”

* * *

On_the_Tramp-by-Manuel_Peter
“On the Tramp” by Manuel Peter

“Now I wish you’d turned me into soup.”
“And I wish she’d kill us instead of this.”
“Why did you have to joke around? Mister funny guy, started dancing and carrying on the moment she popped into view from behind that mountain.”
“What would you have done? I hadn’t fixed you into soup yet, or found a pot, or a source of heat, or enough poison to kill her. It was a delay tactic.”
“And you slowed her down long enough to amuse her. Now you have to live in a house she built on my shell, and I have to carry it–and you–everywhere.”
“Just… be quiet. And let me know when you find something poisonous.”
“She’s always watching. And laughing. You can’t think your plan is still workable.”
“No, the poison is for us.”

Fornit some fornus

Holding-Him
“Holding Him 01” by Flagg3D, made into a gif with the muglife app

He was sitting in his living room the way everyone else did on Sunday nights. Nothing good on TV, nothing he wanted to stream, the buzz of every swig he had swallowed conjuring numbness from directional thinking. He was grateful for that. Focusing now would have been unwise. When he aimed his thoughts, they invariably hit the target, and he worried himself into a sleepless night. He couldn’t do that tonight. Tomorrow was going to be hell at work. Instead, he filled his lungs with calming air, conjured up his Music-For-Jerking-Off playlist, almost hearing imagined disapproval in Alexa’s slightly robotic voice when she fired it up and Paul Ferguson’s sick beats bathed the walls with the right rhythm. His groin tingled, and he wished he could command his Echo to make real his heart’s desire at that moment, but a pathetic imitation on Pornhub would have to do.

With one fingertip, he started scaling down the wall of bookmarks on the screen, drinking in every cum-filled memory, trying to feel something for any of those links, looking for punctuation in his arousal, knowing the scenes and scripts by heart, his unforgiving penis growing harder as he sighed and picked a video that turned him on and revolted him at the same time. The facesitting woman beginning to grind a hapless man’s face on the screen looked like she might be handicapped, but he loved the way she lingered when it was right, just after the face cushion under her crotch began to squirm for air, just before she went in for the kill.

He pulled down his boxers and lassoed his cock with one hand when he felt the echoes of a tremor traveling through the ground. He first assigned it to Keane’s maudlin tune bounding from the speakers, replacing the moans and screams muted on the TV screen, but the exteroceptive caress invading his every cell told him how different that beat was. Like an earthquake trying to play the drums, savant in energy, and somehow aimed at him.

Fuck, she’s back, he thought, horrified. His blood ran cold everywhere but to his cock, where he watched a treacherous five-drop spill reveal a truth his body knew but he fought as he pulled up his waistband and waited. She was coming for him. He knew that just as well as every man before him had known he was chosen for the night. His heart pounded so hard it made him nauseated, but not a single drop of vodka left his stomach as the tremors grew, and his house danced to the music of her massive feet digging into asphalt, cracking it like saltines crumbled into soup.

BOOM

BOOM

BOOM

Closer, closest now, so close the framed print on the wall of a woman embracing Earth jumped off the wall in a suicidal leap that shattered the glass that had encased it. From the speakers, “Welcome To The Boomtown” leaned into his ears like an I-told-you-so. When the booming assault on cracker-like streets stopped in front of his house, he could do nothing except sink deep into the back of his couch, David & David scoring the soundtrack of his roof as she began to tear it away from the rest of his house, the way women open a music box containing a precious ring.

Plaster, insulation, splintered wood rained down on him, the power to his house cut off and replaced by the power of her warmth, her face barely visible in the sudden darkness as the beginning of “Dark Side of the Gym” cut off suddenly. No more light but what traveled from blocks away, her shins heedless of power lines as they always were when she made one of her occasional grand entrances. There would be no sirens, no warning shots, no cavalry. The city knew better than to interfere when the moon filled with her shape, and the air everyone breathed had a gender and a size.

She breathed him in, almost an insurance of what he was. He looked up and felt probed by nostrils he could not quite distinguish in the obliterating silhouette of her head as she bent in and looked down at him, holding the severed roof of his house away from the rest of the house, now a hinged box, he the treasure. He made himself breathe as well, inhaling every hormone wafting away from her like steam from a boiling pot. His groin was instantly brought back to life.

“May I help you?” he offered weakly.

“Maybe,” she thundered, sky-shaped.

“Tell me what to do.”

“Don’t lie to me. Ever. And don’t look away.”

“Not even white lies. And I wouldn’t dream of looking away.”

“Good.”

“How long do I have?”

“What do you mean?”

“You are going to collect me and kill me like you killed the rest. How long before I die?”

“Is that what you think I do?”

“Uh… well… the men you take, they are never seen again…”

“And you think they are dead?”

“Aren’t they?”

“I give life. I’ve never done anything differently.”

He didn’t think that was an answer, but there was a finality to her words he didn’t want to join.

“What may I give you?”

He heard her smile, saliva clicking against the inner wall of her lips as they pulled back, a gleam of moon bouncing off those white boulders dozens of feet away, and hitting him square in the chest.

“Give me everything.”

He stood then, never breaking what he hoped was eye contact, his legs unsteady as his neck craned in her direction.

“I’m yours. Take me, giantess.”

Her arm moved then, tendons and muscles moving as it contracted to bring her hand over the edge of the wall, a shapely darkness that pushed warm air in his direction before it arrived, grasping his form, lifting it off his carpeted floor with effortless grace, five massive lengths curving to embrace him in an instant orgy, pushing him forward and back in a dance as old as time before he was fully encircled in flesh.

He felt himself lift off, a rocket into space, her fist the ship that held him at just the right tightness, the kind that screams a warning between a crushing death and a grip of ownership. He felt possessed. He was no longer his own self. He belonged to those fingers, that hand, that arm, and the nature that dictated them. Into the grooves of her meaty palm, feeling them like lips, he deposited kiss after kiss and began to sing music that was just for her ears.

She never returned for another man.

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.

She

Kissing_It.jpg
“Kissing It” by Avantika Shaha

One day I’ll write a blog entry titled “Adventures In Commissioning Art”, but until I do, I’ll say it’s been a mixed bag. The above is something I love, taken from the depths of my heart and the deepest love I feel for that tiny man that I wish I had the power to shrink and manhandle. Toyhandle? Yes, toyhandle. That sounds better. The artist is Avantika Shaha, or @aviviavai. She creates art beyond size images, and here’s her Patreon page.

Now I will tell you a story. Close your eyes and read.

* * *

The mall was packed with people that Sunday afternoon. The two police officers stood near the escalator and talked as though every muscle in their bodies wasn’t ready for action. Not that it would make any difference. The day before they had been present during the protests on 4th Street, and now they were here, under an equally important pretense. If She had shown up yesterday, there would have been no police, army, navy, air force presence that would change her course of action, and if she made her way to the mall today, two or a hundred or a million armed men would be unable to protect a single soul. Yet they stood, and watched, and hoped.

“Look at them. Every month, the same.”

“They forget. They have to forget. Not forgetting makes you mad. I’d rather they stay home, but you know how She is. Once she makes her decision, she takes what she wants no matter where it hides.”

“Man, I want to go home. I want to watch the game, and I want to drink a thousand beers because I can’t forget. I wish I could. I wish the faces of those men I’ve seen her take could be erased from my memory.”

“What’s the stakes now?”

“$500.00”

His partner whistled. “I could use that money.”

“Get in on it. Talk to Jerry. He’ll be happy to take your money.”

“Forget it. It’s stupid. None of you is ever going to find out what she does with the men after she takes them. After a year of abductions, all we know is that she comes into town near the end of every month, takes one man, and disappears in the horizon with his screaming shape writhing in her fist. Twelve men gone, never heard from again, and we have to sit and watch it happen.”

“I don’t want to remember what happened when they tried to stop her.”

“Shut up. I’m still missing part of my roof. Every time I mow the lawn I find pieces of building hidden in the grass. Once I think I dug out part of a femur. A human one.”

“Fuck.”

“That’s what I said.”

“No, shh. Do you hear that? Fuck, fuck. Fuck! She’s coming!”

“Calm down. Everyone sees you freak out- Oh, Jesus God, look at the display windows!”

As though affected by some spell, the crowd of thousands came to a near complete stop. They all moved in perfect synchronicity as they lifted their gazes to the tall ceilings, and tilted their heads to listen to the rumbling crescendo. Then all hell broke loose.

The man walked out of the dollar store with a Gatorade and a couple of lipstick tubes in a bag. There was a $5.00 purchase minimum at the store, and he never carried cash anymore. He hoped his girlfriend liked the shades and looked for a place to sit. Across the walkway there was a play area for children with some tables and chairs and a couple of benches. Only one of the latter was unoccupied, and he wondered if he could sit there and down his drink in peace without getting the evil eye from parents who might think he was a pervert. He was a pervert, but his only interest were adult women.

Maybe if I close my eyes and pretend I’m asleep, he thought, taking his place on the wooden bench. It felt warm and welcoming, and he let his eyelids droop, and the surrounding noise lull him to tranquility. It was over in a moment, when he felt the sort of vibration one might perceive if in a still position and someone stomps the floor in close vicinity. He opened his eyes and looked around, wondering whether he had heard or felt that slight shaking of the floor when he heard the next one. After a year of monthly invasions, there was no mistaking those shockwaves.

Everyone around him felt the third one, and when they did, parents grabbed their children; some stood in place, knowing there was no predicting a safe location; others ran off in whatever direction their legs took them. He didn’t make any effort to leave his spot, and only moved enough of his body parts to call his girlfriend, knowing he would not be able to reach her. He let his hand and phone fall to his thigh and waited as he observed every reflection in every display window distort as though the surface had become liquid. Somewhere near (or far), one of those windows couldn’t take the next booming step and shattered in a spray to the floor.

He hoped no one was hurt, but sat without moving. I have no idea if I’m calm, or hysterical. I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know. Poor guy, whoever she takes this time. Why doesn’t anyone stop her? Stupid stupid thought! What if she can read minds and she- Oh, my God! Something had broken loose from the skylight ceiling and crashed loudly into pieces not twenty feet away from him, and he looked up and realized the light fixtures had been shaken from their moorings by the upheaval of her steps. She’s coming here, isn’t she? Please oh please I beg you I don’t want to see her again I never want to see her again A shadow blotted out the cloudless afternoon sky quilted through the trembling patches of glass, and hell was unleashed.

She had made the trek again after her last disappointment. None of the little men she had chosen had been able to stand her attention. Her devotion was unfiltered, and her love was one of a kind. When she entered this world, her mind filled with wild scents, and her skin tingled to new depths, with new electricity. The power here was like a drug. There were many here; why the ones like her were so small, she didn’t know. But the other ones, the ones with hair on their faces, and full muscles on their legs, and different pitch in their squeaks… among them was her mate.

She had been able to follow his trail every time. Once she spotted him, she plucked him from the crowd of scattering little toys, and she took him home. There she built a life around him and gave him everything of herself. Each him had lasted a few days before failing to fulfill his role. Each him had broken her heart, but she didn’t stop. She was no quitter, and she could feel him out there. He had to be there. So today she had left her home again, and walked the path again. She followed his trail again, humming to herself, stroking her belly as she imagined their children, drumming her fingers gently over her lips, sleepwalking for a few moments as she imagined him there, swimming from shallow to deep end.

She smiled when she saw the mall. She walked on old streets that still held the shapes of her feminine footprints (she noticed one had been turned into a vegetable garden and shook her head with glee), and over new ones, freshly black after the previous layers had succumbed to her visits. She strutted past cracking structures and buildings that held firm to her glancing advances. She caressed them in passing, plowing four parallel trenches with her nails, leaving a cloud of dust and debris in their wake. People ran from her, and she smiled, loving their beautiful bodies even though she knew none were perfect for her. Only he was. She could feel he was not running. She almost stopped in her tracks. The other ones had always fled. How did he know she was coming? Did he know she was coming for him?

She was so close she could taste him. His little body was perfect. She could see him with her heart as she drilled the mall’s wall deep with her fingers, and lifted the roof as though it had been hinged on. Bits of flesh were running out every entrance, but she was blind and deaf to them. She only felt his heat. The roof cracked in half as she removed it, and she drove her other arm deep into the space she had created to support the cracking material. It would not do to crush her mate when courting him. Next into that space followed her head and shoulders, and the ceiling/roof held together even as it groaned. She looked down and saw him sitting there, looking at her, utterly still but perhaps not calm. There was a dark stain on his pants.

Kisses.

He was drowning in them.

Kisses.

She had pummeled the air with her giant hand and had removed him from his life. His Gatorade and his girlfriend’s new lipsticks a weak goodbye to his humanity.

Kisses. His neck bent painfully when she delivered the next volley. Lips alive and on him, unforgiving masses of thick red.

He had finally screamed when she brought him to her face and said something that felt like hello and wrinkled her nose at his pants. He had continued screaming when she tore them from his body like they had been a layer of soap suds and her fingers an interminable flow of water.

Kisses.

He screamed with the strength of two men when she looked at his member, hidden from his own view by her grip, but not from the cameras of hundreds, if not thousands of people.

Kisses. There. His screams turned to gasps and then to a different scream.

Laughter. Hello.

“Hello.”

Kisses. My perfect one. I’ve found you. We’re going home.

Kisses, kisses, kisses.

Perks

Couch_2_by_mike973
“Couch 2” by mike973

“I’d kill for you,” he said, his voice calm, as though he was talking about the weather, or where his parents took him for vacation every year. But tiny critters didn’t have vacations, did they? It wasn’t as though they could pack their cars and go to the beach. What might have been the equivalent of that in tiny size? Pack their rat and go to the pond across town? She felt her mind dive into the ridiculous. It always did that when she didn’t want to face something. And she had to.

“I’d steal for you,” he continued, and she smiled at him with her lips only. “I think you’ve stolen from me plenty, haven’t you?” she said, and he gave her that crooked smile, the one that highlighted the scar on his cheek that looked like a dimple. Irritation flashed through her, but only because of how distracting his little face suddenly became. She should have squashed his body as soon as she caught him; instead, they were having a conversation. They were talking.

If my friends could see me now, she thought as she stared at him. She recognized bits of her own clothes in his shirt and shorts, and fully understood the disappearance of her favorite panties, and the odd cut-out shapes that had shown up in different pieces of clothing, the clearest sign that her home had, at some point, been invaded. She sighed and watched her breath play with his curls, push them flat and away from his adorable face. He brought his eyelids together the way people do when they are out and it’s too sunny or windy. She sighed again on purpose.

“I’d die for you,” he said, and that stopped the smile she was about to give him freely. “Stop that, silly bug. You’d do no such thing. You’d kill me, more likely.” That earned her such a look of shock from him that she must have mirrored with her own expression. Boy, he’s a good actor. He’ll have me feeding him and keeping him- No, oh no. Hell, no. I’m taking care of this now! “Now you’ve messed up. I should have killed you the moment I caught you! I’m going to do it now. You’d die for me? Very well, you’re about to get your wish.”

“Wait! Please! I’m sorry! I don’t know what I did wrong. That’s not what I mean- Ouch!” She’d been looming over him after she placed him on the couch, a cushion his background. Her hands had framed him, and her heart had jumped in her chest until it hurt. Now she moved her hand and pinched his left arm between fingers and thumb to lift and carry him to the bathroom, where she would flush him away. When he cried out in pain at her rough treatment, her mouth watered, and her breath quickened. Her ears burned red, and on her mind there was a crazy thought, and another thought she imagined sane. I want to hear that sound again, and I’m fucking losing it.

She realized she was no longer walking to the bathroom. She was standing still, holding her arm high enough to have brought his dangling body up to her face. Her burning face. He was moving back and forth from her face like a pendulum, and she realized she was panting. At him. On him. Jesus Christ, what is going on here? What is wrong with me? When he extended his tiny arm in her direction and touched her face with the gentlest of caresses, she should have swatted it away with disgust. Instead, she heard herself moan, and felt fire between her legs. No coherent thought presented itself this time.

“Make that sound again,” he said, breaking the spell only to cast a new one. “What?” she said, “What sound?” Her voice sounded strange to her, as though it was coming from far away. “Stop,” she added, half-heartedly lifting her free hand, finally thinking she should do something about this little bug getting his germs all over her face, her lips, the roundness of her nostrils. How had he gotten so close? His chest was bouncing gently off the tip of her nose, and his free hand swept across her cheek like the wings of a butterfly, or something far more beautiful. And what in the world was that thing pressing insistently against her philtrum?

That woke her up, and she yanked his body away from her face, understanding what that thing had been. Her mind did the math, and she calculated that thing to be at least half an inch long. She now desperately wanted to see that thing. She thought of that thing stretching under his shorts as she flushed his body down the toilet, and grunted with displeasure.

“No, not that sound, my giant owner; the other sound. The one that’s like a song.” She must have moaned again, because he smiled brightly at her as though nothing was wrong with the world, and uttered dreamily, “that sound.”

“What did you call me?” She thought she had heard the word “owner”, but that couldn’t possibly be right. Roaches didn’t have owners. Wasps, spiders, disgusting bugs were not owned or beloved or wanted desperately when they molested a human with their squiggly little front legs, were they? No; they were crushed underfoot, and flushed away or tossed into a trash bin. They didn’t have hard little things anyone wanted to see and touch and taste and maybe even- Why was his body moving closer to her face again!?

“Owner,” he repeated, “owner… owner,” and that last one sounded like it had been ripped from his throat, a strangled sound that made her smile with her eyes as she watched his unfettered arm reach for her face again. Before he could hypnotize her again with his tiny fingers, she dropped her hand to her side and with it his tiny body, and walked straight to the bathroom. He screamed all the way to the blue-walled room.

“I’m going to flush you down the toilet now, little infestation,” she sing-songed, bringing his squirming body over the toilet, “though I think I should kill you first so you don’t have to drown.”

“Owner, please don’t kill me. I can be good. I can make you happy if you keep me. There’s an upside to letting me live! Please, allow me to show you!”

“Upside? What can something like you do for someone like me? And don’t give me that shit about killing and stealing. A mere bug-”

“Samuel J. Cole,” he said, in that same the-weather-is-fine voice. She almost dropped him from the shock.

What did you say?” she managed to ask.

“Owner, Sam Cole was your boyfriend a few years ago, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Until he died.”

“Yes.”

“Under mysterious circumstances.”

“Yes.”

“After beating my beautiful owner, and breaking nearly every bone in her body throughout the course of several years.”

She only kept looking at him in response.

“I’ve killed for you. And I’ll do it again if I have to. I’ll kill the world for you.”

No one died that night. All across the land of her bed, all that could be heard were the slightest chirring of bedsprings and those sounds, repeated again and again.

In My Grasp

grasp_by_sorenzer0
“Grasp” by SorenZer0

How does it feel? I’ve wondered how it is to be so small. I don’t want to relate or understand your feelings. I only ask because I want to watch you gasp for air as you put words together in your tiny mind, your lungs straining to fill with enough air to make you able to share them with me. You will, no matter how hard I squeeze. Tell me, my toy: How does it feel to stand tall one moment, and the next to fall as you shrink, to sink so low your shoes suddenly stand to each side of you like walls of scuffed leather?

How does it feel to listen to the rustle of your shirt as it empties out of the shape that held it in place? That sound is all around you, like the simultaneous descent of every leaf during Fall. At a distance, but so close, your keys. Your wallet, now filled with useless information. No, you no longer have a social security number. I’m the society you’ll get for some time now, maybe for the rest of your life. I’m the security you need. I’ll hold you for every number of days you have left. Your new social security number is one. Me.

Your driver’s license? I’ll set it on fire in front of you. Every bit of information in it wrong. You have license to do nothing but please me, to drive my senses wild with your tiny size. Your date of birth is now. You are reborn in your new size. Your address is my body, your sex is my body, your eyes are on my body, your height is two inches always glued to my body. Your class? Toy. Sex toy. Your restrictions? Everything. The weight of me is your bondage. Every curve of mine could be your expiration date.

No, I’m not playing, you stupid little thing. This is not a game to me. Shut up and watch my hand come for you now. Feel every shrunken cell in your body tingle with sensation as I sink you into utter darkness, my hand your world now. I peeled your empty shirt and pants, your empty boxers from your struggling, maddened shape, I watched your forearms flutter away from shielding your face, and I saw you open your eyes to the new light that was old a few moments ago. I saw them widen in horror as your head bounced up and down, trying to understand that the thing above you, the mountain sliding over you is a woman. Me. Your owner. Body and heart.

How does it feel to be surrounded by flesh that is only the hand of a woman? What does your mind tell you? Can you smell what I did with that hand before? Can you pick up the scents of my day? Or are you overtaken by the sounds and the rushing of my blood pulsing into every digit and my palm, the muscles and tendons that contract and relax as I shape it into a prison for you? Can you hear my words? Or do you only hear my heartbeat? Can you understand you’ve now become nothing but my property?

You’ll never speak to your parents again. You’ll never see your pets again. Your girlfriend? Wife? Friend with benefits? What was she? It doesn’t matter. She’ll wonder why you never came back from work; she’ll call your number and never get anything but voicemail until I incinerate the thing. Should I leave your clothes for the police to find? Foul play, they’ll call it. I don’t play, fuckers. This is not roleplaying, assholes. This is real, and it’s happening to you.

Squirm. I love it. Struggle. I love it. Fight. I love it. Feel the swing of my fist when I walk away with you in it, your clothes in a trash bag. Your past is garbage now. Your humanity is beyond you. You’re my sex toy now, and nothing more unless I say you are something more. Feel the violent sway of my grasp. Feel how it tightens and slackens as I walk. Scream puffs of little wind into the padded walls of it. Your new padded room, my darling little property. Scream until your throat bleeds. It will make no difference.

Learn the grooves of my palm, the labyrinths of my fingerprints. You’ll see them every day, for the rest of your life. No longer a car owner, my hand will be your vehicle. My body your transportation from place to place. You will study every foot, every mile of it, and map my wants as I dictate them. It all starts now, in my hand. I’m all fingers and thumb. I’m thickness and life and nourishment and heat. I’m blindness and sight. I give birth to you every time I spread my digits to catch your damp shape spill into the center of my spiraling grip. I return you to darkness when I lock you up in the cage of my making again, and rewrap your whole body in my hold.

I’ve done so much for this moment. I gave everything to this moment. Don’t you dare call it a joke, a prank, a roleplay. This is my heart. This is my mind. This is everything I am when you were not around, and everything I’ve been after I decided you were mine. Breathe if you can, speak if you can, scream if you manage enough air in my grip. Don’t think I’ll turn back now. I never will. I don’t care how badly you want to return to that life as a man, those hugs as a man, that job as a man, those vacations as a man. You’re not a man. You’re my plaything. You’re my love. You’re my passion. You’re my everything.

What did you do to deserve this? Nothing. Not one damned thing. You belonged to me before you were accidentally thrown into this world at the wrong size. I’m only here to right every wrong. Call it a game again, and I’ll squeeze your body just a little harder. Call it a prank again, and feel the repercussion of my anger. Call it playing again, and break my heart into pieces I’ll glue back together again in a shape you won’t like.

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.”