As you know, my friend Aborigen runs writing contests. It is now time to vote for the theme that will dominate the next contest. I want to write stories about giant asses… and I don’t mean people of incredibly large sizes that behave unseemingly—I’m talking about that star-shaped enclosure surrounded by soft, embracing flesh, found on just about everyone’s body. I also want to write about tiny butts because they are adorable.
If you feel differently, vote for “butts” anyway because there is a future where I rise above the clouds and rule this Earth with a tender, loving fist…
…unless you vote for anything besides “butts”. If that’s the case your horizon will darken, the air you breathe will spiral away from you in a violent vacuum, your mind will break as you see that shape—my shape—shatter the earth as I come closer. The last thing you’ll hear will sound like thunder but will be, “So you voted for stories about pee-filled balloons? That was unwise.”
He couldn’t believe he’d been caught, not after a lifetime of hard-won freedom, of narrow escapes, of costly solitude. Arrogance. That’s what’d done him in. He’d imagined himself undetected after years of living in her walls, of waiting patiently until she was gone, or asleep, or showering, or watching TV. He’d thought nothing of the subtle changes… that time she came back unexpectedly after leaving for her yearly beach vacation. Five years he’d been in her house without a single incident, five years of knowing her schedule—and her— by heart, and that last time she’d come back after he’d heard her car rumble away. He always waited thirty minutes after she left the house for an extended period of time, to make sure she was gone before he left his hole in the wall, and when he finally emerged from concealment, she’d been standing there.
He’d frozen then, thinking he’d been seen, his hand flying to the blade he always carried with him. She might kill him easily, but he’d give her a scar that would force her to think of him every time she looked at her hand. Instead, she’d peered down at some papers, old mail, bills she kept in the mail basket, shifting them until she appeared to find what she needed. She’d then left without looking at him, even though he was sure he’d been within her field of vision. He’d run to his hole and had waited a whole day before he stirred from it, and the following two months he’d been riddled with anxiety, extra cautious, depending on his well-stocked pantry rather than adventurous trash-can spelunking expeditions, curtailing his staring sessions during her showers down to a frustrating zero. He’d also checked her Internet browser history and expenditures to make sure she hadn’t bought a cage, or clothes for tiny people, or anything that would indicate knowledge of his presence. There’d been nothing, so he’d begun to consider relaxing a bit.
Maybe that’s why she caught him. Maybe he should’ve checked her receipts more carefully and realized she’d been purchasing materials for a trap, but there was nothing she’d searched online that gave him cause for alarm. Still, he’d been caught. He’d just finished killing a rat that had squeezed its greasy body under the back door, where she’d removed the worn gap seal and had yet to install a new one. He’d stood there, eyeing his kill, recalling days not too long ago when the first thing he did was tear into the still warm flesh and devour the heart. He was spoiled now, grown lazy in her warm home, a little thick in the middle from eating up her carbohydrate-rich crumbs. Disgusted with himself, he got down on his knees and split the rat’s skin with his blade, finding its heart, which gave a couple of pumps when he sliced it free and brought it to his snarling mouth. And then… darkness.
He woke up slowly, his head swimming, his nostrils filled with the overpowering scent of something familiar. Nausea coiled inside of him, but he suppressed it and forced his eyes to open, regretting his decision immediately. Over him loomed a woven canopy, and he recognized the smell right away. Bamboo, from the backyard. He’d harvested some fresh shoots in the past to make a cot that still stood solidly in the hole that was his home inside this house. He’d cut them with his own blade. His blade! He reached for it and found nothing but fabric. His belt was gone and with it the weapon he carried everywhere. Now he sat up and felt as though he’d been punched in the gut. His lips moved as he tried to scream, but all they produced was a slow, dry gasp. Before him, encompassing every inch, every foot at the other side of the cage bars was her face, closer than it’d ever been, closest to him than he had ever allowed anyone her kind to be.
“Hi,” she said, her breath blasting him with warm air, his curly hair pulling back and away from his face in a dance that stopped almost as soon as it began. He scrambled backward, not knowing he looked just like a little beach crab to her at that moment, and not knowing that’s what made her laugh goodnaturedly at his useless effort to move away from her. When his back hit the opposite side of the cage, he stared at her and tried to scowl. His face felt so frozen in astonishment he almost wanted to knead anger into his features with his fingers. Instead, he cleared his throat and swallowed hard before speaking with what he wanted to be a firm tone.
“Stop laughing at me and let me go this very moment,” he squeaked, instead. That seemed to stop her giggling, but the vacuuming gasp that replaced them only increased his distress.
“You are amazing,” she whispered, a gale of minty heat swirling all around him and then past him, and then another when she spoke again. “I’d never seen one of you this closely. Not once. Not until now.”
“I don’t believe you! Let me go, and I swear you’ll never see me again. I won’t even pack my things. I’ll just walk right out and never ever come back.”
“Things? You have… things?” Her face moved closer to the fragrant bars. “What things are these you have? Are some of your things my things?”
He whimpered in horror, knowing that everything he owned he’d stolen from her. Everything but the blade he was sure she now had, and a loincloth that had eventually turned to shreds, replaced now with tiny clothes he’d sewn himself from the fabric of old panties and bras she discarded.
“Yes- I mean, no. Just my knife. Give me back my knife!”
“Absolutely not. So you can slice into my palm?”
“Why would I do that? You’re not touching me.” He felt regret at his words, even when knowing that what then took place would have happened no matter his response. Something out of his range of sight shifted like mountains turning in their sleep, and her hand rose over the horizon, fingers stretched like sunbeams in his direction. She pinched the cage door’s latch open, and the space that contained him was instantly reduced to nearly nothing, occupied now by her hand. He screamed and rose to his feet to run somewhere, anywhere but here, only making it easier for her hand to grab him. Wordless shrieks, high-pitched and following the rhythm of his fists as they pounded on the wall of her thumb, her forefinger to no effect. He tried to turn in place, using the softness of his skin to try to slither out of her hold, having never been held by a petal-soft hand as strong as iron, not knowing there was nothing he could do to escape her grip. A passenger all the way to her face, there were no bars between them now as she held him so close to her face he could almost touch it. Horrified at the impulse to hold out his hand until he could feel the tip of her nose, he begged.
“Please, don’t eat me!”
A roomful of air somewhere below expanded and contracted as she laughed silently. Or nearly so. More air, quite moist, bathed him as the corners of her eyes crinkled. He looked at both of them, his head moving from side to side and then his gaze dropped point blank to the lightning-white rows of teeth that shone in front of him. He felt stupid now, thinking of his knife. It was nothing compared to these enormous blades. They would slice and dice him until he was a mass of unrecognizable red. He made himself stare at them. He had screamed and begged, but he wasn’t going to close his eyes. He was going to make her look at him as she killed him.
“Eat you? Such a silly little thing. The thought never crossed my mind. Why should I eat you? Are you delicious?” Her middle and ring fingers held him in place to the center of her palm, but she extended her pinkie finger and curled it under his leg, forcing it to straighten before him, towards her mouth. Something snapped inside of him, and he became enraged as he realized she was going to make him watch her eat him. He let loose a string of words in his language and hers, terrible insults, the most vulgar names reserved for one’s worst enemies. In response she pinched his thigh between her digits firmly, and smiled brightly as her lips spread, saliva popping against her gums as her mouth grew wider, her tongue emerging to welcome his foot. He tried to kick that wide swath of pink flesh away, only to see the upper row of her teeth come down to pin him, shin deep, against it. He stopped saying words and started howling, expecting to see, to feel his leg split into two pieces when she severed it with a single bite. Instead, he felt suction as her tongue pulled away, her teeth clamped him firmly… but instead of biting, she licked. And licked. Again, and again. And a moan as deep as the center of the Earth traveled from her chest to her mouth, plucking him until his ears rang. Yet he screamed until his throat was raw.
Her head cocked a little so she could turn one ear closer to him, and his lower body twisted in place, dragged by the hold of her teeth as his leg stretched too much, enough to pull his groin painfully. Pain, he thought. That was pain. What happened before was not painful. His screams stopped, now nothing but dry heaves as she continued to play with his lower leg like it was candy. Her moaning stopped as well, and he dared to move his eyes away from her mouth to look up and see her open her eyes. Why had she closed them? With part of him still inside of her, she hm’d quickly, and spit him out.
“I don’t know. You don’t seem very tasty to me.”
He was quite hoarse but still had enough voice to say, “Your kind eats our kind all the time. Don’t pretend you don’t.”
“Have you ever seen… how long have you been here?”
“Tell me the truth. It’s better that way.”
“In those five years, have you ever seen me eat any of your kind?”
“No, but maybe when you go out to eat…” he trailed off, knowing from looking at her every receipt that she never ordered those dishes when she went out to eat.
“I don’t. Some of my friends do, but I can’t stand to watch them eat when they do. I’ve never eaten one of you. I wouldn’t.”
He only stared at her for a moment before he croaked again, “Please let me go now. You’re not going to eat me, so please don’t kill me.”
“Oh, I don’t know about not eating you now… I’m just not sure. Your meaty leg is quite fuzzy, but it’s only your leg. Maybe the rest of you is more flavorful. Perhaps in broth? With some wine, I think. Red… yes, red wine.”
He never saw it coming, her other hand. It reached him suddenly, and two of its thick prongs met him below her firm hold. He thought to scream again and instead watched in shock as two polished fingernails, as shiny as mirrors, pinched the fabric of his underpants, the only garment she had not removed from him. When she began to tug gently at the fabric, he found his frog-like voice again.
“What- what are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
“It- uh, it looks like- Hey, stop! No!”
She ignored him, pulling slowly at the fabric like she was peeling the film off a boiled egg until the waistband bumped over his groin, exposing it fully as it slid past his legs. She half-moaned, half-grunted a very dirty word.
“I’m going to really taste you now, and see if there’s any truth to how delicious you are. If I don’t like what ends up in my mouth, I’ll let you go… but if I like it, I’ll keep you forever. Is that clear?”
He didn’t really get a chance to answer. Not for a few hours, anyway.
I was looking for someone to work on an image for me, for one of my stories, but what do you look for when you want to commission someone to create something you love? You look at their past work. I have yet to find past work by artists that showcases their skill with drawing the male form as the main focus. It’s generally the female character that gets the spotlight, and that leaves the small person in the image a very small percentage of care, detail… jesus, sometimes it’s portrayed as a stick figure, or a faceless, shapeless creature.
I’m finding myself drawing because I don’t see what I want out there so I feel compelled to create it. I mean, I see it every once in a while, but the percentage of images I like versus the images that exist is ridiculously uneven. Meh. I’m off to get drunk and have moderate fun. I can’t think about this shit anymore. Y’all have a happy Friday!
Because I’m convinced we’re all very busy writing or plagiarizing or parodying songs about tiny men and giantesses, I decided to create a contest about it. I begin to suspect that only a few of us ever entertain the thought of composing original songs about people of different sizes. An even smaller number does it credibly. I’ve heard a couple of amazing works thus far.
My own songs are childish and mediocre, but you don’t see that stopping me from putting them together! Nope. I’ve also become interested in promoting my Size Tunes 2017 contest with commissioned images, the one above being the first of… I don’t know how many. Let’s see how addicted I become to DeviantArt artists. This one was made for me by TeaQuill, who is currently accepting commissions. I’m very happy with it.
I’m also quite sure we all like to be sung to, simply because I do. The idea of a shrunken man that serenades his giantess has always struck a deep chord with me. It doesn’t matter that he sounds like food cans being crushed, or that what he sings is the ABCs. What matters is that he does it; that he stands there and entertains her, and earns her heart by exposing himself, and giving her an offering that is part of who he is.
Speaking of who we are, this is who I am:
(Just the lyrics. The song file is just too much to share.)
(Hmm. Where’s my Dollhouse song?)
(I’ll post it later. I can’t find the lyrics right now.)
(But enjoy the image, and think of words to sing to your giantess.)
(Or your tiny man, if you have one that inspires you.)
Sometimes I wonder why. It doesn’t happen very often, but say, every few months I do ask myself what it is that happened, if anything ever did happen, to make me the way I am now. Why do I fantasize about tiny men a size so impossible, it will never come true?
I wrote the above paragraph six years ago, and left it there, abandoned it the same way I abandoned by blog. Nowadays, I wonder, but less often. Maybe every year I ask myself that question. Is it DNA? Is it something that happened in utero? During my baby times? Was I struck by lightning? I know it couldn’t have been that time I touched my brother and found out he had stuck a fork in the wall socket. Bzzz. No, it could’t have been that electric moment, because by then I was already inclined this way, like a tower of Pisa no amount of therapy can straighten.
Or can it? There’s someone over there, somewhere undefined, that once told me he doesn’t think about this stuff any more. How can that be? He mentioned it to me twice, so I figured I couldn’t bring up this stuff to him anymore. It’s OK. I have you guys and gal for that, but my point is: is he “cured”? How can someone that was so heavily into this, suddenly be out? And not just out of writing, out of collaging, out of forums, but OUT out. As though the giantess that lived in his brain packed her huge bags, gave him a sad look, and left forever, no forwarding address, you little bug.
Sometimes I wonder if that will happen to me. I don’t think it’s possible, but what if? I’m not the same person I was when I started blogging. I have changed tremendously. My outlook in life did a 180, as did my philosophical, religious inclinations. But this? No. This is still in my head. Both my heads. That little bastard is never moving out. He will grow old with me, and when the day comes that his dollhouse crumbles into dust with my last breath, he’ll totter out and leave with me, wherever we go.
I found the image above in a magazine, I forget which one. It belongs here. Who doesn’t want a giantess for the weather? Despite what Samuel Clemens insinuated, the good weather in heaven is created by the gentle breath of kindhearted giantesses. Of course, if you want to go to hell for the company, I’m sure you’ll find the appropriate devouring viragos. Have fun with that.
And to cap it off, I had a strange dream last night. I was looking for survivors on a field of dead soldiers. At my far right, the sound of battling could still be heard. At my feet I saw a dead man with a note pinned to his uniform. I undid the pin, and read the note. He had written something like, “If I’m dead, take my rifle. It’s a Mosin Nagant.” On the other side of the piece of paper it read, “Take my laptop too.”
There was no laptop, but there was a rifle. I pried it from his cold, dead fingers, and felt a deep sense of satisfaction, as I’ve always wanted a Mosin-Nagant. It was’t a sniper rifle, and my mind told me it sure as hell wasn’t a Mosin-Nagant either. It felt more like a much older, long-barreled Marlin. Still, I took it, and went to my quarters, which were magically untouched by war. As I hid- er, put it in my locker, a Toby Jones type appeared in my dream, and I was suddenly thrusted into an inquiry with the purpose of finding out where the god-damned rifle of a soldier was. A soldier who was very much alive.
I sat there, and said nothing. That rifle was beautiful.
The ad above fell into my hands, and I-hapless victim of false advertising-immediately thought, “Finally! A play about a woman and the man she shrinks and then forces to live in a tiny dollhouse and then she uses him as her plaything every night and every day and every morning and she has her friends Vanya and Masha over and they share him and he cries out in pain and humilliation but he really loves it and they live happily ever after!”
And I’m not sorry. I’m sure he deserves it, or he will some day. In the beginning, the same as in Highlander, there could be only one: one man to shrink, to keep, to love, even to marry. That was the spark that gave life to the most amazing fantasies, from their tender beginning in my mind to their explosive end in my body. Even when it was my size that changed and not his as I grew dozens, hundreds, thousands of feet, my attention was always focused on his infinitesimal shape, and the rest of the world was a mere frame, a set of accessories that came and went when he stayed.
But all that changed last year, and the manifestation of that change was almost instantaneous. We were together one night, my little guy and me in bed, when we were joined by a man my size. I would not tell you what happened next, because it was the most humiliating experience in my tiny man’s life, though we normal ones enjoyed it repeatedly… over and over again. And later, when he thought I was asleep, my new boyfriend indulged his newfound curiosity with my little toy man. It was quite a show, despite the tears and little chirps of protest.
Well, there it is. Perhaps it will mutate again; return to what it used to be and stay that way, as it was for nearly the entirety of my life. Sometimes it shifts in that direction, but right now I’m enjoying the freedom of different imaginary partners.
I remember a poll conducted years ago at Giantess.com, about the number of giantesses members fantasized about when writing, role playing, etc. I can’t recall the choices we were given, but a healthy percentage that included me selected “one”. The majority picked whatever exceeded that number, so what I’m sharing with you is hardly earth shattering, even if we don’t ignore that I’m a woman and I’m talking about more than one male partner.
These days there are two or three (this one time there were dozens, but in my defense I had grown intolerably tall and several handfuls of men were required to meet my demands) of them, and boy do we have fun! Don’t let them fool you into believing that what I sometimes force them to do isn’t fun for them, because it is. 🙂 I won’t deny my lone man returns from time to time, his tiny footsteps tentative whispers on the floor as he enters my room and wonders if tonight I will have him —and no one else— or if we will be joined by others. He always hopes I won’t force him to watch while he’s unable to participate, but even that fear doesn’t keep him from making his way back. He can’t help himself.
I wanted to write something new, as well as create a new collage for this weekend’s ABC’s game entry. I didn’t have the time to do either, so it’ll have to keep. I’m happy with the way I think it will look, but in the meantime I’ll recycle a spectacular dream I had and shared at my old blog a few years ago.
C is for City. I have somehow connected part of my enjoyment of growth with a desire to protect the man for whom I have feelings, and the city in which he lives. That connection manifested itself in a dream I had once. I was shopping in the commercial center of a city, and the streets were packed with people as they entered the shops and skyscrapers that clustered to great heights every way I looked. I was moving along the sidewalk when a large crowd of people turned the corner ahead of me, screaming, running away from something, and heading my direction in a stampeding rush.
This vision was immediately followed by a thunderous blow to the ground, and an arch of rubble and crumbled cement that blasted away from the building that towered to my right as a huge fist hit its corner. As more booming footsteps shook the ground, I turned and ran with the terrified crowd, except I was groaning to myself, realizing I would have to deal with this monster. I didn’t mind the fighting; it was the changing into my superhero costume that I dreaded. See, I carried it in my purse, and I would have to change into it right there, in front of all those people. Funny how I was more affected by modesty than I was about being crushed by an oversized creature’s foot.
I fled for about two seconds before I stopped dead on my tracks; people flew past me without stopping to watch me undress (OK maybe one of them did), and take a slinky, pink satin suit that looked more like something one would swim in, out of my purse. I turned to face the humongous beast, who was a rampaging brunette (colossal humans have made it to every B-movie monster list I have seen) that rose 200′ from the pavement, wearing a pink fuzzy thing a la Edison. She stood and growled on that intersection while stomping madly on people and cars, bending to grab handfuls of victims just to fling them against surrounding buildings.
The dream changed from that sequence of events to my imagining (in the dream) what would happen once I put on my suit. I would grow instantly (the reason why I could not wear it underneath my clothes) to a height that matched this destructive creature’s, and the growth of my suit would “activate” the growth of my teammates, an Asian lady that wore a green suit, and a Caucasian blonde that wore a blue one. I pictured them both rushing to my side, and helping. Sadly, the dream ended with the certainty that the three of us would battle the female “monster” and save the city, but it didn’t move from dream imagination to dream action.
Because of the way it feels to imagine and dream of growing and fighting a scaly, furry, or skin monster, I would do it in an instant. Anything to protect my guy and the city in which he lives.