Things you only tell your best friend

Present

“Happy birthday, Patty.”

“But you already gave me a gift.”

“That was wine for the party. This is your real present. I wanted to wait until now that we’re sober to give it to you. To hand it over to you last night with all of us here would have been a disaster.”

“You’re being very mysterious. What is it?”

“Open it and see!”

Patty smiled at her friend and sat down on the couch, her living room still littered with beer bottles and party debris from the previous night. Emily sat next to her and took a deep breath. She hoped Patty would be pleased with her gift. She watched her tug at the bow and the taped gift wrap in her typical careful manner, and when she unfolded it from the box inside, she gasped.

“No! You didn’t!”

“I did.”

“But this…how? I mean, why? I…I…I don’t know if I can, Emily!”

“Look at it.”

Patty looked at the now unwrapped gift. It was clearly crafted by hand in the fashion of action-figure cases. Cardboard back and sides, and the front transparent vinyl, perforated to allow oxygen entry to the two-inch tall man trapped inside. He was struggling against the plastic binds that kept him attached to the inner back of the case. His mouth was moving incessantly, and his facial expressions seemed to alternate between anger and terror.

“It’s Tony.”

“No, Patty. It was Tony. Now it’s only a toy you get to rename.”

“I’m not like you, Emily. I don’t know if I can find this as fun as you find Michael-”

“Don’t call it that. Its name is Fucktoy now.”

“You are crazy!” said Patty good-naturedly, and Emily laughed with her.

“Well, that’s what it is. Look, you can treat it… fine, you can treat ‘him’ however you want to treat him, but my advice is that you put him in his place as soon as you can, or he’ll never learn. I don’t need to tell you the kind of asshole he was before. He’ll need your guidance and firm hand to be what he needs to be.”

“How are we supposed to… you know.”

“You’ve asked me that many times before. You know what I do with Fucktoy.”

Patty blushed. Her cheeks turned red every time she heard their old classmate’s new name. When she’d seen him again, many years after they’d graduated, he’d been two inches in height and very quiet, and once Emily had left the kitchen leaving him on the table, he had begged Patty to help him escape. Patty had done nothing of the kind and had told Emily what he said, word for word. The next time they visited he was still healing. She looked away from her friend’s face and down at her gift. Tony stopped screaming and struggling as soon as he felt her eyes on him like a weight on his body. His jaw dropped and his eyes opened wider. Patty felt a bubbling brook of giggles explode from deep within her. Emily smiled softly, her deep connection with her friend allowing her entry to her thoughts. She still asked.

“Tell me what you’re feeling.”

“I don’t know! I can’t describe it. I’ve never felt this way before.”

“Try, Patty. Look at it and tell me…”

“Ah… it’s so different. My heart is pounding so hard. When you told me you’d done this to Mich- to—she coughed—Fucktoy, I was initially horrified, but I also remembered what happened that day in school so many years ago… I don’t want to bring it up, but the way those assholes cornered us during recess, and just started… and what you did to them. I thought for years we had hallucinated it; even when the police… anyway, my loyalty has always been with you. I have this odd faith in that power you have, and I know Fucktoy is where he- shit! Where it belongs…”

“Go on, Pattimelt,” said Emily, placing one hand on her friend’s shoulder and pressing it lovingly.

“I feel… happy. Like… I can handle this. Like I have the upper hand. Finally, after enduring years of betrayal, I get a say. I know I chose to stay with him before, and when he’s not a monster he can be wonderful.”

“Right, like Hitler was wonderful to his dogs.”

“Oh, stop! Tony is no Hitler.”

“No, but you had surgery, Patty. I had to go with you to the hospital several times. You were so depressed your health was falling apart. Always running a fever, always looking like you’d been crying.”

Patty said nothing, still staring at the man inside the box. Emily let go of her shoulder and reached for her purse, from which she pulled a thin utility knife. “Here, Pattimelt. Do the honors.” The little man in the case saw the knife transfer from hand to hand and started screaming afresh. Patty’s smile deepened into dimples on her cheeks, and she perforated the vinyl sheet easily with the sharp blade. After she sliced through the plastic ties that kept Tony in place, she watched him flop down to her lap. Tony scrambled to his feet and could not negotiate the tilted, smooth terrain. He lost his footing again and started crawling toward the edge of Patty’s thighs.

“What’s he doing?”

“He’s being a shithead, like always. It’s up to you to train him.”

“I don’t know what to do! You do something.”

“No, Patty. He’s your toy. I’m never ever going to touch him again, not until he’s properly trained anyway. He was unconscious when I wrapped him, so he’s really disoriented right now. Just cover him with your palm.”

Patty did as she was told, cupping her hand and bringing it down on Tony’s squirrely body before he foolishly jumped off her and down to the couch. “Now what?”

“Now you name him. He has to know right away that there’s no turning back.”

“Didn’t you explain anything to him?”

“Not at all. I went to his office, and before he saw me I did my willing thing, and he disappeared behind his desk, but not before he banged his forehead on the edge of it as he shrank. You see he still has a bump there. I think he’s been awake for a couple of hours, but I wrapped you present before that.”

“I don’t know what to say to him!”

“Yes, you do. Just tell him what’s in your heart. Tell him his place now. Tell him his name. Tell him how things are. And don’t worry about squeezing too hard. I make these things sturdy now.”

Patty whimpered softly and took a deep, calming breath. She then lifted the dome of her hand off Tony, and seeing he didn’t waste any time trying to escape again, she curled back three of her digits and grabbed him between thumb and forefinger. Emily leaned back a few inches and watched her friend come to life for the first time in years. Patty turned Tony’s wriggling body slowly and lifted him until he was only inches away from her face.

“Stop!” Her voice was firm, and Tony screamed again, his hands flying to his ears. His eyes were closed and he kept kicking his legs.

“I said stop.” Her tone was still quite stern, but lower in volume. She gave him a little squeeze. Suddenly there was no longer any air in his lungs left for screams.

“There will be no more of this unruly behavior. You are no longer Tony. You are… Nothing. You will continue to be Nothing until you learn how to please me. Then you may become Something. If you fail to do so, you will acquire a final name: Shit Toy. Do you understand?”

Tony gave no sign of understanding. He dangled from Patty’s hand, trembling like a leaf.

“I asked you a question, Nothing.” She gave him the slightest of shakes, and his head flapped back and forth. “That is a yes. Next time you’ll speak up, or find yourself in deep shit.”

“Damn, Patty. You’re a natural.”

“Yeah, well. I do have four younger siblings.”

“I don’t think you ever threatened them with final names of any kind.”

Patty grinned at her friend even though her gaze was still fixed on Nothing.

“How do I teach him tricks?”

“The same way you teach a pet to do anything. Repetition, immediate discipline, and eventually some rewards.”

“Is there any way you can get Fucktoy to talk to him?”

Emily seemed surprised at her friend’s idea. “I guess. Fucktoy is well trained now, but we must supervise all encounters.”

“Definitely.”

“I’ll be back in a bit.” Emily went to her friend’s bathroom, where she looked down and carefully folded the hem of her skirt up, again and again until it rested on her abdomen. She then hooked her thumb into her panties’ waistband and stretched it away from her body until she saw a tiny shape slip from her crotch down to her panty gusset.

“Fucktoy.”

Fucktoy’s eyes were tightly shut as light flooded its confines and blinded it. Emily turned until her body blotted out the bathroom light. Fucktoy opened its eyes, regurgitated thick liquid from its mouth, and coughed some more until it could speak.

“Yes, my owner?”

“I want it to have a toy-to-toy talk with my friend Patty’s new diversion. I want it to explain to it the rules of being a sex toy.”

“What does it say?”

“It repeats what it knows. It explains to it how to survive. I will be there with my friend for support.”

“Yes, my owner.”

“Good toy. Now let’s get it cleaned up a bit.”

And she cleaned it, but not before she dirtied it all over again.

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The Plantar Hug – Alternate Ending

Because every time I read this I know that something must be done. The original blog entry was written and is owned entirely by my friend Aborigen, to whom I’ve asked no permission to do this, and who has been made no part of this travesty fan fic. Let the healing begin.

at_the_gym_gts_2_by_mike973
“At the Gym GTS 2” by mike973

The Plantar Hug

“You’re bad,” she says to me, frowning.

I look up at her and shrug. “I don’t have much to work with, here. Limited freedom, limited resources.”

She sits cross-legged before me, looming far, far overhead. I’m only as tall as her crossed ankles. We are each of us naked. My erect cock stands—at my size—like an unruly whisker. I can just see the gentle swell of her belly, beyond where her calf flexes prominently. Up above her belly are two shy, round breasts, ripe with late youth and almost done developing. Excellent form. Each is crowned with tan nipples pointing proudly in nearly opposite directions, far to my left and right and very far up above me.

I wish I were clinging to one of them, dangling like a piece of jewelry. Digging my nails into that wrinkly flesh and feeling it grow harder against me, slowly pushing me out into space with only this tan node of flesh to hold onto. She can feel me staring at her breasts, so she stretches her arms back and pushes her chest out—her tits stand triumphantly, deservedly so. Down go her arms, propping up her massive upper body (massive, to me), and her face melts from its “I’m taking a deep stretch” expression to resume frowning at me. Darkening eyes, pouty lower lip, disapproval written all over her brow.

“But I love you,” I offer.

She hmmphs irritably. “Then why do you act like this?” One tremendous, smooth leg stirs and pulls out of the cross-legged position. Her knee rises into the air and her foot plants heavily to my left, thudding into the carpet whose fibers stand around my shins. In my mind, her legs form what I call the Great Gate, slowly opening.

“I get restless and bored.” It’s true: she keeps me in a shoebox all day without even a shiny ball to roll around. My only reprieve is when she cages me and sets me before the TV, but inevitably she turns it to E! and I have to curl up, clasp my ears and sing all day long to keep from going mad.

One leg moves, one large foot sliding on its side to my right. I start to babble an apology. There were times in the past when the Great Gate signaled a wonderful evening together, but this is not one of those nights. Her other knee rises into the air, her toes flex the carpet beside me, and my eyes turn inexorably into the courtyard of her pale, fresh thighs. Momentarily forgetting her glowering visage above me, I study the stubble of tiny hairs hinting at the space below her navel, growing stronger toward her mons, and then the strip of clearly shaven whiskers that split and descend around her labia. Those luscious pink and orange folds of skin, so sweet, a little tangy, and with a warmth that feels like love.

And her feet slide over the carpet, the balls of each foot mowing down wide swaths of dense acrylic fiber, until they flank me. Her knees slowly descend and the pallid, fragile soles of her arches expose themselves to me. I apologize again but there’s no indication she’s heard me. My cock twitches with desire at the sight of her inner thighs tensing, clenching, but my cock is stupid. Her thighs are pushing her shins together, and the walls of her soles rise up on either side.

The balls of her feet catch me right at my rib cage and they begin to press. Her toes, those sweet, pink little pearls, flex and hug behind me. Above, her eyes regard me blankly as though I were an uninteresting experiment on a video recording, even as she manipulates her feet to roll me back and forth until I fit along the knuckles of her toes. I wish this were an act of love. There’s no point or even time to apologize further as her feet press my sides, her toes clench and snap my back, the balls of her feet pop my ribs and my lungs and shatter my pelvis. And her feet grind and roll me around, pull back, then smack together with a clap.

Alternate Ending…

I heard the loud rasping of her feet on the carped as she drags them away from the lump of my body. “You love me. Prove it.”

“Ngh.”

“Get up. What are you doing? Stop contorting that way.”

“But- ugh, I’m dead. You killed me. I’m broken, bleeding internally in several places.”

She sighs impatiently. “Stop being so dramatic. That’s part of the problem, always such heart-felt anguish about nothing at all.”

I remain perfectly still, my eyes closed as I turn my attention to my own body. Aside from perhaps a cracked rib, there is no pain beyond the humiliation of having been trapped between her feet and released like a bug caught and thrown outdoors in the middle of a winter storm.

“I said I love you.”

“And I said prove it.”

“How do I prove it? I have no means to do so.”

“What do you need?” she asks, and I remove my limp arm from my face, turning to look up at her. A glimmer of interest has dawned in her eyes.

“I need paper. I need writing materials, and a place where I can write. Good light, and-“

“Whoa, hold on. I keep you in a box. That’s good enough for you.”

“But it isn’t. Do you love me?”

“What?!”

“I’m speaking very clearly. Do you love me?”

She looks angry now, but interested. She’s definitely interested. “Never mind what I feel.”

“I think you like me, at least. So give me the opportunity to show you how much I care. Give me one week and everything I ask, and if I don’t make things better then flush me down the toilet, because I can’t stand loving you the way I do and having all my love trapped in an old shoe box.”

She blushes, her eyes bright with… tears? Dislike? I can’t tell. She nods, a tiny muscle twitching in the corner of her mouth.

“Very well, you can have paper, and ink, and I’ll make you a desk with cardboard and tape. Oh, it will be so cute! I can go to the 3D printer place on 8th St. and have them print out a tiny chair. I can put them both on my desk next to the laptop, and you can write while I watch my shows.”

“How will I write? There are no quills my size.”

She thinks for a moment, her gaze cast far over my head, her features still like the carved side of a mountain. She blinks, and one of her eyelashes jumps to the void below, sacrificing itself for me. I watch it drop and get up with a sharp pain on my side. I don’t care. I dive to catch it, and when she looks down at me, I’m panting and on my back again, but holding the lash up with one hand, like a torch.

“What’s that?”

“One of your eyelashes. You just gave it to me. It’s the perfect implement for writing.”

She swallows hard, and all remnants of anger abandon her face. She smiles and brings up her knees, her soles now on the carpet. I keep very still as I watch her body take over every inch of my sky, my ground shaking again and again. It goes on forever as she rises to her feet, until she peeks down at me, still on my back between them.

“Get up, slowpoke. Let’s find some cardboard for your desk.”

Two Words – the Twitter Edition – Part 2

How it happened…

Over a year ago I tweeted the following:

heytwitter

Days later I posted the first two-word entry. Naturally, I made haste to write the second part as soon as I could. Here it is, over a year later.

The second volunteer, famous Bard to Giantesses and professional raconteur Aborigen, offered the following two words. There are two remaining sets of words that will form a total of four I’ve pompously decided to call Two Words (a game) – The Twitter Edition! fireworks

Alleviate, Sandalwood

Game-Dollhouse.jpgPerdita traveled to Vermont every month to oversee the construction progress of her dollhouse and deliver materials for it she procured on her own. It had been a year since she first started having dreams that soon became nightmares. Only when she heeded them as instructions, the bad dreams stopped and became messages. From whom, she didn’t know; all she knew is that she started receiving them the moment she began searching for a good dollhouse maker, and contracted one in Vermont to build the dollhouse of her dreams.

As she handed the man sandalwood logs she had gotten from an Internet stranger she met for coffee and barter (she gave him one of her chicken in exchange), she knew the craftsman thought she was mad. She could see it in his eyes. She almost suggested he keep his glaring to himself, after the fortune she was paying him. The house had to be right; it had to be perfect.

“Yes, sandalwood shingles; you heard me right.”

“But that’s going to cause another delay! The special hinges you wanted for the windows, and the iron balustrades for the balcony and the stairs-”

“I don’t care. It has to be sandalwood… it has to be on the outside so the fragrance doesn’t overpower him…”

“I beg your pardon?” he spat, and she realized she had been talking to herself.

“Never mind. Do as I ask, please. I’d like to see the house now if you don’t mind.” She saw that he thought about it for a moment, thought about sending her—and her crazy requests—away, but there must have been something in her eyes, something that told him she was capable of anything, because he took her to the back, a long way past the workshop and different varnishing and woodworking rooms, out the back door and past a well-kept backyard where the dollhouse maker’s wife was cutting flowers.

She ignored her surprised nod and meaningful look between the two of them, and followed him to the barn, where all nearly finished products were curing. She also ignored all the beautiful homes that were ready for delivery, a large one being carefully packed in several boxes by shop workers, until they reached the worktable where his home stood. Her toy.

His home, she thought; the home of someone impossible, someone not real. I hope you’re happy, little man, because your home is almost ready. Then it will sit empty in my room, on the floor; a constant reminder of the thousands of dollars I spent because I had a couple of nightmares. She stood still, mesmerized by the beauty of the tiny home, perfect in every way. Twenty-four inches to every side, with an adorable porch where she would place a wooden bench and table, perfect for reading a book while drinking lemonade… if one measured a few inches in height. She bent low, which earned her a warning from the dollhouse maker.

“Please don’t touch anything yet. There are certain applications that are still drying.”

Perdita didn’t want to touch it. She thought reaching for it might break the spell, though as to who might have cast it, there was no answer. Her heart pounded when she saw the glimmer of light reflected in the beautiful mahogany floorboards. She sighed when she peered past the balcony doors and saw the tiny master bedroom, though she was never going to call it that. It would always be the toy room. His room. She almost giggled at her own madness as she continued the tour with her eyes and wondered what they might look like from the other side, the tiny side. Huge brown orbs spanning the entire home, from top to bottom in one glance; moving pupils darkening with interest; eyelids creasing at the corners if her lips smiled somewhere out of sight, beyond that sturdy exterior wall.

I need to be able to sit on it, she had explained. The master craftsman had been so insulted his face had turned red. My creations are not stools, Ms. Cordovan, he had hissed. She almost picked up the dollhouse to bring it down on his head, but she contained her anger and repeated the details of her request, as she politely thought of it. She knew it was a demand. She knew if he didn’t comply and do as she wanted, the spell, the goddamned “magic” would dissipate. There was no way she was ever going to allow that to happen. Not if she had to kidnap his wife, or him, or hold them both at gunpoint. So special reinforcements were made, and the house was sturdy enough to sustain sitting on it.

My life is a euphemism, thought Perdita with a sigh as she straightened up and followed the dollhouse maker back to the front office. A conjunction of actions I’ve decided will somehow alleviate my situation. I’m making toys when I should be making friends. I’m building a toy home when I should be thinking of a real one. I’ve bought furniture that fits in the palm of my hand when I’ve had the same old couch for years. A couch my ex-boyfriend’s father gave me while offering to “break it in” with me. And it’s orange. But no, here I am, spending a hundred and fifty dollars on a small living room set made by self-designated witches in Belarus. How extraordinary. 

But that night, in the cheap hotel room she’d leave in the morning, and after all those months, she had a dream. She was in her own bed, a euphemism for a mattress on a rusty frame, and a deep voice was calling her name with a whisper, and a warm hand was caressing and flicking her earlobe as it told her his name. She woke up with his dirty words still in her mind and looked to the side to see if there was anyone in bed with her. The hand had been the size of a seed.

There were no more dreams of him as she waited the right number of weeks for her toy to be ready for shipment. She took the day off work to wait for its arrival and refused to allow the delivery man to stack the boxes together to bring them to her doorstep. Instead, she helped him carry each, one by one, and deposit them gently on her porch. She thanked him and he ignored her with a furrowed brow as he drove away. Alone, she brought the boxes into the living room and opened them with relish. Each part had been packed carefully and was in perfect condition. The rest of the day was spent assembling together each floor of the toy home until the slanted roof was in place. She was vacuuming each tiny room with miniature cleaner attachments when she realized what she had to do.

Every night after work, Perdita rushed home and unpacked one piece of furniture at a time. Each piece was given a very unique baptism between her legs, the kind that didn’t stop until that piece was fully coated. She didn’t dare skip a single piece because the impulse to do what she was doing had felt like a final message. By the end of the week, she was sore but extremely relaxed. Every room was decorated. The kitchen had a working fridge and a stove, and the bathroom had a tub and sink that worked and running water from a tank in the attic she had filled once everything was in place.

That night she stood over the beautiful toy and grinned from ear to ear. She knelt low and looked through the windows once more. Very carefully, she inserted her hand through the front door and flicked on the porch light, displacing the porch table and chair that sat empty. Once she rearranged them, she opened the hinged roof, checked to make sure the tilted tank was not leaking and turned on the light in his bedroom. She brought her face very close to his bed, as close as she could fit it over the room’s walls, and whispered his name.

In the morning she opened her eyes, flung her legs over the side of the bed, and walked back to the small house. She dropped down to her knees as gently as she could, and peeked through the window. In the tiny bed, there was a male form. His brown-haired head shifted ever so slightly, and his chest rose and dipped with every small breath he took. She had to cover her mouth to muffle her cry of joy, and only spoke when she could whisper his name again. When she did, he woke up.

Enough

gg180_by_amgipi
“Gg180” by AmGiPi

“Guess how many different kinds of handshakes Stephen Colbert has for his guests,” she asked him, her words only slightly slurred. These past weeks she’d been working diligently on drinking every bottle of alcohol she’d accumulated in the last decade and had never consumed. Years ago she’d claimed she was saving them for a nuclear winter, or Armageddon, or some such calamitous event. He only thought of it in passing, because all he wanted to do was fall asleep. He was resting comfortably on her chest, right between her breasts, where it was warm. Not calm, given the strength and proximity of her heartbeat, but after all these years he could virtually sleep through all her quakes. Well, most of them.

Only tonight she’d been drinking from a bottle of sickeningly sweet blood orange liquor, and the scent of citrus permeated the air. His air. His atmosphere. He didn’t want to play games or guess things. He was so relaxed he was practically purring. She’d allowed him to rest a surprising amount of nights lately, and his bruises and cuts had almost healed. Every part of his body looked nearly the same color. He was glad about the new sleeping hours and happy he was not being brought to the brink of death every night by her constant sexual needs. Her fingertip was running down his back, caressing him from neck to calves, only dragging him in the slightest by friction.

“Four? I don’t know. One,” he ventured, knowing she’d see he was only throwing numbers in her direction, not interested in giving her question some thought. That was something he knew irritated her, his lack of enthusiasm, but he was too comfortable to care at the moment. Still, he regurgitated another number, half drunk from inhaling the alcohol in her breath.

“Unbelievable. You’re not even trying to guess, Toy. Look. Just look! You’re not looking.” He could feel her heartbeat speed up under her skin, and he made a half-hearted effort to look over his shoulder at the TV screen that blinked and shone at them from blocks (to him) away. Stephen Colbert was talking to some British man he vaguely recognized. Some kind of funny man. “What am I waiting for, Owner? They are just talking, and I’m this close to falling asleep…”

“Count them in your head: He has one handshake for people he loves and respects, like Michelle Obama. He shakes their hand very gently, and then lets go by spreading his hand flat… not completely flat, but almost like a concave wall of fingers. I don’t know what to call it yet, but it’s quite different a shake from the one he gives the people with whom he can go love-nuts. He goes in for the shake, and keeps holding their hand, and then covers both hands with his free hand. I call that one Moving In Together-“

“Kill me now,” he interrupted disrespectfully, turning away from the TV and burrowing into her skin again, making that warm fingertip on his back stop and press down onto him a little too hard. “Ow, Owner! Stop, I’m sorry. I mean, Kill Me Now is the handshake he reserves for people he despises! That’s what I meant. I really-“ She pressed her finger down on him again, forcing the air out of his lungs and effectively shutting him up.

“You need to be quiet now. I’m tired of your lies and your disrespect. But yes, he has a special handshake for people he doesn’t like, like that guy… what’s his name? The really rich guy that wants to go to space or sell space in space or some shit like that… Elon Musk. Yeah, let’s call it Kill You Now. He gives them the briefest of handshakes, and then he disengages his hand as though the other person is a leper.” She tucked her chin into her chest to look at him and saw he had turned a reddish blue. She unpinned his body and massaged it gently until his breathing normalized, and his face turned pink, and then an angry red.

“Or maybe you’re just imagining the whole thing, Owner. He doesn’t really know most of the people he interviews. He probably doesn’t have any definite opinions about any of them. Can I go to sleep now?” He didn’t wait for her answer, and curled his shape into a fetal position, breathing deeply and closing his eyes determinedly.

“Understand something, Toy; I wanted to keep you forever, but I’ve decided I’ve changed my mind. This arrangement no longer suits my needs. When I saw you and chose you to shrink, I thought you were the one I wanted. I mean, you were. I wanted you, so I took you. I made you mine and I didn’t care what you thought. I endured your constant complaining even as I made you the center of my universe. You tried my patience endlessly with your ill temper even as I moved heaven and earth to give you my every attention. You had no worries. I had all of them. Your only concern was my happiness, while I had to deal with family, friends, work, chores, your health, and your constant emotional absence.”

“Run that by me again?” he asked, lifting his head and looking at the outline of her jaw. “I really don’t want to fight. It sounds like you want to fight. Why can’t we just have peace?” As small as he was, she could feel his body tense up. She had wanted a little man that had a modicum of patience, of fortitude, of love. But this man had none. The world revolved around him, and he took no notice of anyone’s needs but his own. She wondered what in the world she ever saw in him.

“Soon you’ll feel an intense pain in your joints, Toy. It will spread inexorably all throughout your body. That signifies the beginning of your regrowth. It should start tonight, at some point. I mixed the formulation in your food, and you had enough of it to return you to your original size. Probably a couple of extra inches, which I’m sure your girlfriend will like. I contacted her… anonymously of course. She’s waiting for you at the airport. She moved on after you, but she seemed nice enough to want to see you and let you stay with her, at least until you get back some semblance of a normal life.”

“Excuse me? What the fuck? What did you do to me? You’re growing me back now? Without my permission? Who do you think you are? No! I don’t want to go back! This is my life now, with you. This is what I want. This is what I’ve always wanted! Why are you sending me away? You said you’d keep me forever! That you’d never give me up! Why are you doing this?”

“Love, my little Toy. I’m doing it for love. I gave you everything, and you gave me next to nothing. I want love. I deserve much better than what I have. I deserve everything. All you gave me were lies and betrayal. I need a tiny man that stands on his own two feet and does what’s necessary to make me happy. You either never moved a finger, or only pretended that you did. I see you’re upset, but I know you have no understanding of how this feels for me. It feels I’m losing everything after realizing I had nothing. You are losing everything after having everything, and you never knew it, or appreciated it, or cared.”

Feeling pain begin to radiate from every joint in his body, he tried to respond with obscenities as was his habit, but instead he gasped and began to tremble. She pinched his body between her thumb and finger and deposited it in her other palm. Slowly, she left her couch and called a car service. By the time he’d finish regrowing he’d be unconscious and she’d be able to dress him and leave him somewhere she could observe his coming to. Whether he found his way back to his girlfriend with the information, phone and money she’d placed in his pockets was his business. He was no longer her problem.

Confession

Confession.JPG

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Child-”

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

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

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

“I killed another one.”

“Oh, God.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’ve been drinking.”

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

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

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

“Jesus Christ. Emily!”

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

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

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

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

“Yes-”

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

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

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

“Emily, for God’s sake!”

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

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

“Father, this is a human body.”

“Emily, you need help.”

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

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

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

“Emily, listen to me-”

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

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

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.”

Tuesday Night News…

I was checking my Twitter TL today when I spotted this tweet, by talented author Taedis. Naturally, I had to snag the image and make it better. It doesn’t quite reflect my thoughts; it simply tells a Size story in the way the original cannot.
MuchBetter
In other news, my blog is moving up in the world, as now I get visitors that search for:

RapedByGTS
I’m certainly referring to the second search phrase since the first one has been a given since the beginning of this blog. Now, some of you may ask, “but Undersquid, that’s a terrible word. Whatever do you mean when you say your blog is moving up in the world?” To which I respond, “never mind, little ones. It will all become clear in subsequent blog entries”.

Scheherazaded

Flash_and_Moon-Curtain.jpg

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

* * *

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

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

“Why do you do this?”

“Because it’s time, and I’m hungry.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’d love to show you.”

“OK.”

“But I’m afraid I can’t.”

“And why is that?”

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

“Ten weeks.”

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

“I don’t see any-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her expression changed immediately to one of suspicion.

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

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

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

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

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

“What?!”

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

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

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

“Shit.”

“I’m ready.”

“Shut up. I’m thinking.”

“I’ll shut up now.”

“Look, uh… ok. Show me the webs.”

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

“What? Why do I need a sledgehammer?”

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

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

“You mean-”

“Shut up and show me.”

“Yes, of course.”

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

* * *