Cruel January 2018: the Stories

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I’m no longer going to explain the history behind my friend Aborigen‘s contest because it’s rather easy to learn if you poke around long enough. All tiny people need to know is that the contest series exists, and this is its second year running. Last year I entered the #CruelJan17 contest and had a very difficult time wrapping my head around writing a Cruel story. I was pushing my boundaries as a storyteller, and it transformed me. That came as no surprise, since forcing the brain to do something new generates change (I wish that change involved a literal height increase, but you and I know this Universe is appallingly malevolent when it comes to making my Size wishes come true).

I didn’t experience the same thing this year. I had many ideas for my stories and was only able to work on a few, but it happened effortlessly, and I actually enjoyed the process. That change pleases me, as it’s exactly what I wanted to accomplish last year. I did have a great deal of difficulty with one story I didn’t complete. I’ll explain why when I post it here in a few days. It will be password protected as some of my entries are now, so if you like to read it, contact me and I’ll make sure you get the password. If you want to steer clear of my naughtier content, your wisdom is to be commended and your logic is impeccable. Though I will make note of your location for future destruction, as it appears to be a hotbed of subversion and entropy, a wretched hive of scum and villainy, etc.

Something else I did was offer readers the chance to win some “prizes”. It’s mostly just for fun, and I have yet to get around to delivering rewards to people that guessed correctly the #ButtyJuly17 stories that were mine. I haven’t even posted those! I’m running behind. As always, whoever guesses which story (or stories) is mine wins a drawing of their choice, to be delivered sometime in 2020.

All #CruelJan18 stories can be found here.

Read them, or I will destroy you.

Enjoy them, or I will end everything you love.

Vote for your favorites in various categories, or I will crush all the ice cream.

You’ve been warned.

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She

Kissing_It.jpg
“Kissing It” by Avantika Shaha

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

“What’s the stakes now?”

“$500.00”

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck.”

“That’s what I said.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kisses.

He was drowning in them.

Kisses.

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

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

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

Kisses.

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

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

Laughter. Hello.

“Hello.”

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

Kisses, kisses, kisses.

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.”

I win

the_apocalypse__pt_2_by_gtsx3d
“The Apocalypse” by GTSX3D

The house where you live
The size of a die to me
Snake eyes for windows
My feet cracking the asphalt on your street

I win

Did you think I would not find you?
That I would not cross the distance?
I’ll play the game
I’ll lift your house and I’ll roll your house

I’ll win

Window pips flashing in the sun
Because bad things happen in the light
And the day is bright
And my eyes are brighter through the breaking glass

I win

I win because I’m taller
When your house stops rolling
It’s only because my foot stops it
Everything in it blended like a painting gone awry

I won

Now be born from your furniture
Emerge from the rubble
Your house is no longer a home
Your body is all that remains from the quake

I won

Come out, come out, wherever you are
Nothing left but kindling and you
A phoenix before the fire
My hands reaching for you like flames

I won

And I peel off the roof that hides you
And I find your trembling body
And I lift you to my skin
And now you burn, and now I burn

Ashes will cover the world

Cruel January 2018

rld_beach_play
“Beach Play” by RLD

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

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

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

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

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”.

Pillows for tinies…

I’m getting ready to start one of my many writing projects, but before I do I wanted to mention this to you….

Most of you own at least one pillow. Pillows are great. I don’t have a pillow fetish, but I’m always on the search for the next great pillow. If I suddenly experienced a great growth spurt, I’d probably attempt to procure a comfortable pillow before I try to find articles of clothing. Believe me, I’m not going to be one of those silly giantesses that use a stupid boulder on which to rest her head.

Likewise, I think of the comfort a shrunken man might require while in my possession. It doesn’t even matter that I might never acquire shrinking powers; I still would like to prepare everything for his arrival. For a long time, I put aside my dream of owning a dollhouse and threw away all the furnishings I had bought for it. I feel that dream slowly returning to me. I begin to see possibilities, and I’ll document them here, on my blog, as they progress. In the meantime, a shrunken man is always going to need a pillow.

But what do you do when you want to feel tiny, and your body refuses to acquiesce? Stupid body. But you are not. You get your size fix however you can engineer it, and unusual pillows are one way you can do that. How about this kind?

Giant-handsI know you are not a baby, but if I felt tiny and wanted gentle hands holding me as I sleep, I’d make myself a pair of giant fabric hands I can stuff with soft material, and strategically place sand weights in them so that some pressure is exerted on my body. Never mind how that would be helpful for those of us with sensory differences; I can imagine that crawling into bed and positioning enormous hands on your body would put you in a certain frame of mind. But what if you don’t want to be held? What if you’d like to be et?

Vore-side-up.jpgThen step right up and onto a couple of fried eggs for a hungry giantess’s breakfast. The white rug and accompanying yolk cushions are so cute, I’d consider them for my living room, even though I don’t like rugs that can stain easily. I have cats, and I’m a clumsy giantess, especially when I’m drunk.

I have no idea how I’d explain such a decor choice to friends and family who would helpfully inform me my house looks like breakfast. I’d act surprised, and say, “Oh, really? Well, I had not noticed!” Then I’d kick my Size books under the rug and hope they don’t notice my shrunken-man pillows. What shrunken-man pillows, you ask?

Male-doll.jpgI like the idea of constructing man-shaped pillows, the same way this woman did. Mine would not be lifesize, of course; mine would be small. I think they would then have to be called “dolls”, but see if I care. If I could have a two-inch long pillow shaped like a little guy, I’d be tickled. Of course, it wouldn’t be very comfortable… but at least if I roll over it, I wouldn’t kill it with my giant form.

Alright. I have some writing to do. Have a nice day, and don’t forget to wash your pillows on a schedule, and dry them well, and protect them with a hypoallergenic cover.

 

Adventure Time – “Mama Said”

Oh, shut up. You know you love that show too. When it first came on, it used to annoy me, but not everyone at my house hated it, so I began to overhear longer bits of it, and to love the double entendre, and the size bits. I love size bits, no matter where they come from. No, that’s not true; there are size bits out there I find repugnant. But every time I see something growy or shrinky on Adventure Time, I smile like this…Lewd-Smile
…and never fail to look around, if I’m with family or friends, because you never know when someone will look at you, jump up from their seat and cry out, “A-ha! J’acusse!” as they point at you and reveal to all present that you have a filthy size fetish. So I make sure no one sees me blush and no one hears my heart pounding and no one watches me try to control my frantic heartbeat, and no one is taking pictures of my cheeks as they turn a violent red.

I not only do that when I watch Adventure Time. It happens any time I see a commercial or show depicting size stuff. It’s also happened that I’m not alone, and someone will say, “Look at that [whatever] with that tiny guy! Did you see it? Did you look? Look at it, look at how funny it is!?!??!”

Those are the times my poker face must be at its best, because inside my head I’m screaming, “YES, I SAW IT. IT WAS HOT. I DREAM OF OWNING SUCH A SEX TOY. YES, LITTLE MEN ARE SEX TOYS DIDN’T YOU KNOW?!?!?!” But outwardly I’m…


And… “No, I missed it. I was thinking of politics or tax reform or health care.” And they always believe me. Would my life be better if I told all around me that I have these thoughts and feelings? Nah. It would make no difference. It would probably mean members of my family find my blog, and start asking questions. Especially my mom. She’d be all… I’m not even going to tell what she’d be like. But it would not be good. The questions would never end.

Anyway, I was about to tell you about this:

http://www.moddb.com/groups/adventure-time-community-group/videos/adventure-time-mama-said

I buy every Adventure Time season as soon as it comes out. Every season is extremely rewatchable. I love the songs. I know the songs. Don’t make me start singing now, because I will. But I love the size stuff the most, no matter how inconsequential, how unrelatable, how vague it is. I’ll take it because I’ll take my size stuff any way I can get it. So, from minute 3:20 on, I looked like this:
Horny.jpg

And I did the same with my lips every time Finn was handheld. Do you have any idea how much I love handheld? No, you don’t. I love it. A lot. So much. If I had a tiny man in real life, he’d be so handheld, so much. So often. So tightly. So hard. So closely. Any image of a tiny human (or robot—let’s be honest) male held in the hand of a larger female anything… is going to cause the same effect on me.

Clothed in galaxies

It’s past midnight, and I should be asleep; but there’s no way I can close my eyes and have nothing happen, so I’m sitting here having a lunch of ale, ice cream, and aspirin; rewatching a certain episode of a certain TV series about people that no longer have a pulse; forcing myself to write. I really need to start taking better care of myself.

But not tonight. Tonight I’ll forgive myself the terrible meal, forgive myself not going to sleep, forgive my brain on fire, and pretend I had a serving of vegetables by eating two olives. Oh, damn. This ale is incredibly bad. So bad. It smells good, but it tastes like dirty shoes.

The photo you see above is of leggings I bought a couple of weeks ago. I like to wear things—cheap or otherwise—that represent who I am without saying a word about who I am, and my galaxies leggings do that for me. When I feel bad, or downtrodden, or I’ve had a bad day, I break out my giant shoes or my giantess clothes or jewelry, and I might not feel better, but it puts my mind on the right road.

I love my leggings. When I look at them, when I touch them, when I wear them, I think of how tall I am, that I drape myself in constellations… that my little gigantic black dress is made of dark matter… that (somewhere interesting) in the deep space that my leggings encompass, Earth spins, and on it I can see everything and everyone. That I keep it safe or crumble it in my fist like a clump of clay, depending on how delighted or annoyed I become with its occupants.

To some of my readers, such a size is unmanageably large. An ultra giantess can’t possibly interact with a planet so small, and conversing with a single earthling is impossible. Not so. I am Me. I can do that, and much more. I can touch it, hold it, caress it, place it anywhere on me, and flirt with the only one person on it that matters. So what if he appears microscopic when compared to me? That means nothing when my focus is centered like a blinding spotlight on him. Nothing is hidden, nothing is out of reach. My Underverse is perfect.

But reality.