What did you say?

What did you say?

“Hey, giantess!”

Hey is for horses.”

“Uh, OK. So…”

“So?”

“I’m here!”

“So I see.”

“So… what are you going to do to me?”

“What in the world are you talking about?”

“Dunno. Are you going to pick me up between your fingers? Put me in your mouth? I’d like that very much. And if you’re feeling frisky, you can put me down your pan-”

“Oh, fuck. Not another freak.”

“W- what?”

“Are you insane? Why would I put you in my mouth? Or anywhere else?”

“Because you are a giantess. That’s what you do.”

“You have your head stuck on Incident 109. I suggest you snap out of it. Most of us don’t do that shit.”

“Speaking of shit, I wouldn’t mind it if you take a dump on me.”

“What!?”

“Yeah. Just take me with you to the Great Brown, and-”

“The “great” what? Jesus, is that what you little people are calling it now?”

“Yeah. The pictures of it from space, and just the color, you know?”

“Yeah. I guess. Look, I’m not taking you with me anywhere. I don’t know you, and I don’t want to know you. You are one of those little weirdos that get off on weird shit.”

“Oh, please. Are you going to tell me you never put any of us… you know… in there?”

“What is wrong with you? You’ve never met me in your entire life, and you just start talking to me in such a manner? How can you be so disrespectful?”

“…”

“Good. You appear to be thinking. Have a nice day.”

“Wait!”

“What?”

“My name is… er, G- Gonzo.”

“Really? ‘Gonzo’?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“I doubt that’s true.”

“I can’t tell you my real name. I’m sure you understand.”

“Why is that?”

“I have… I need to be careful about who sees me with you.”

“You do realize there are cameras on me all the time.”

“Yeah, but I haven’t done anything bad yet.”

“Nor will you.”

“Oh, c’mon! Please do something to me. I don’t care what! Just touch me. Put me in your hand. Let me hump your thumb!”

“Listen, you seem like a really stupid guy, so I’m going to tell you how it is: I’m not at all interested in touching you. Ever.”

“But it’s no trouble to you! All I want is-”

“Shut up. I don’t give a fuck what you want. Now, you know we’re not supposed to kill you little worms, but I’ll make an exception for you if you don’t stop talking right now. I want you to listen to me, and then I want you to go away. If I ever see you again, I will hunt down your family, and kill them all, one by one, and I’ll make sure you get to watch me do it. Then I’ll find your friends. I can, you know? I can smell each of them on you. I’ll hunt down every scent on your body, and I’ll kill every person you’ve ever met, and talked to. I’ll crush your pets, your home, your city. I’ll destroy the things you like, the actors you prefer, the books you’ve read. If you’ve ever read a single book. I doubt it. Good. Now I have your attention. Stop crying and listen up.

I’ve lost everything. Do you understand what that feels like? You don’t. Not yet. When I grew, it happened suddenly, the same way it happened to the rest of us. I killed my children and my husband with my giant body. I didn’t mean to, but they were eating next to me at the table. They never saw me coming. I never saw me coming. Then, naked, I crouched in rubble and decay for an entire week, alone and desperate, because I couldn’t move from the pain. Neighbors ran from me, or took shots at me with their guns. I wished that had worked, but as I’m sure even someone like you knows, I can’t ever die. I was so thirsty I thought I’d surely die, but for a week I was there, alone, hearing their screams, and feeling their hate. Then I sat in a giant cage for a year, until everyone figured out we could not be stopped, and I had to help with Incident 109. Yeah, that was me.

I have no friends except those of my kind. I have to shit in a field, and every time I do, pictures of my expanding and contracting asshole hit the Internet. I can’t read my books anymore. I don’t have the job for which I studied for years. I can’t watch TV, because I’m on it all the time. No one your kind talks to me except to say stupid shit as you did, or ask me the dumbest questions. I battle the impulse to destroy you every day. I get up in the morning and I want to create something, but all I see is an occupied canvas I want to wipe clean. You are that canvas. Do you feel me now? I’m not here to entertain or get you off. When I get off, it will be with someone I pick, someone with half a brain. He will get to go in my pocket. He will be picked up and caressed and considered and loved. I will listen to his words, and pay attention to his wishes.

You? You can die now.”

* * *

Collaging Notes

Season 4/5 of Rescue Me came out many years ago, back when I was starting to blog, or already blogging. I can’t remember. I do recall seeing the ad campaign for it, and thought it looked great. I think I also wanted to do something to “fix” one of the images, and that’s what I finally got around to doing. There wasn’t much to do, since the giantess part was already done. I only added a man who had the right pose, and changed her eyes, which should always be looking at the guy, even if he’s a little jerk. Then I altered shadows and highlights so it looks like the light on him is coming from a different direction, and I added his shadow. That was the hardest part, as I had to study other shadows in the image, and make his look halfway real. I could spend more time on it, but I’m not going to. This is not exactly a collage that makes me happy. It came from a different place… not sure which one yet. It’ll come to me, as I work on the blog entry.

Not small enough…

notsmallenough

Once again I was at the Twitters, minding my own business, when I spotted Will carrying on something awful about something or other, some colorful images he was hollerin’ about. I attributed that behavior to his well-known taco deficiency, and moved on. Then I saw Tina RT his T, and what she said about “creating your own” made me take notice, as I’ve long wanted to create a comic strip about my adventures with my shrunken man. Boom. Done.

Now all I have to do is get some sophisticated humor. Or humor at all. Or I don’t care, actually. As long as I get to be a comic-strip character that spends every minute of the day shrinking her favorite victim target little man.

Shoes for a Giantess – Kermit Tesoro & Sebastian Errazuriz

I have more shoes than I can ever possibly wear at the same time. Owning so many pairs of shoes causes me to examine my role in a corporation-run world pullulated by people that daily buy junk they don’t need. I only need one pair of shoes, right? None, if I ever manage to grow 198 feet. I’m still trying, but in the meantime, I have to wear shoes. I was looking for my next pair last night, when I put in a search for “squid shoes”. This is what followed.

squid-shoe-kermittesoro

Kermit Tesoro‘s squid shoes were among the first results to pop up. How can I not love them? How can I fail to imagine myself in them as I grow massively tall, and decide to take a stroll on… everything? Not to crush, of course; just to show off my height, and my beautiful Undersquid tentacles. And somewhere along the line, as I make my mark in the world, and on your streets, and your roofs, and your parks, and tenements, I happen to snag interesting things. I can picture a haul, an unexpected benefit from owning a pair of shoes such as these. This haul is different every day, depending on where I decide to burn a path; the treasures I find when I return to my giant dwelling vary in texture, looks, and flavors. I can see that one day, one of those little treasures is a man.

He’s still screaming, trying to get my attention, even as I extricate him from my shoes’s grasp. Too fascinated to respond, I turn him to and fro, the pad of my thumb glued to his chest. How extraordinary it is to feel his rapid heartbeat! Such a tiny organ, such a small-sized conjugation of blood flow, so fragile, and at my absolute disposal. I can feel my own heartbeat, much slower by comparison, and many times stronger. I could make space for him in my heart. Should I? Why not. He’s still trying to talk to me, and, done with my own thoughts,  I decide to open my ears to his pleas. I smile down at him, and bring my index and thumb closer together just a fraction, to give him a reassuring hug. It works. Now he says nothing. My eyebrows touch and release as I notice that he might be struggling to breathe. Don’t worry about him. He’s perfectly well. He will always be well.

what-a-heel-sebastianererazuriz

Sebastian Errazuriz‘s collection of 12 shoes also captured my attention. You can see why. The pair above is the first I spotted. The stories about the people that inspired this collection aren’t always flattering, but my own stories don’t always paint my little muses in the most favoring light. What’s important to me is that I want a pair of shoes that feature a little man serving the function of heel. I’d brave walking on high heels, for such a pair. Of course… I’d have to wait for him to switch positions every time I take a step. I’d be immensely tedious. No, no… immensely fun.

Unless I “recruit” another man to fill the void. I do think of ways to make my little guy’s life easier, you know? I suppose I’ll have to drag myself to the mall, walk around on the lookout for a beautiful man distracted by the screen on his phone, approach him from behind, tap his warm, rounded shoulder, and when he turns, spritz his face with my shrinking formula. Then I’ll wait until he becomes the right size, fish him out of that pile of clothes, and bring him close to my face to show him my approval of his new size. When he keeps on screaming, I’ll just shrug it off, whisper, “what a heel,” and when he screws up his face at the sad pun he’s yet to understand, I’ll know he’s ready to be brought into my bra.

Ad feminam

Fort Tilden 07.12.2015

Heifetz was bending Mendelssohn to his will, and vice versa; her iPod Nano almost drowing the sound of the waves crashing dozens of feet away, when Vera finally forgot her mother’s words, spoken hours ago, before she drove away.

“Every year you leave! Every year I’m alone for a whole week! What if I die? What if someone breaks in, and wants to rape me? You’ll find me dead, on the floor. Is that what you want?”

“Mamma, if someone breaks in, shoot them dead. Put a bullet in their brain, like you learned at the shooting range.”

“How can you ask me to do that? I could never do that! Just stay. I promise I’ll be quiet, and let you write in peace.”

She had believed that once. Bad choice. Her mother was one of those people that had to talk. She had to, or she’d lose her mind. Her lips were always moving, always forming the next sentence, no matter how repetitive, how drenched in minutiae, she had to say it. Vera made her beach-house reservation every year, at the same time, and for the same period of time, right on the off-season fence, when the water was still warm, but the weather had changed enough to detract the noisiest, most annoying beach goers.

She loved Horsehead Island. September was dying as it delivered October, but this year temperatures were insanely warm. She had arrived the day before, late in the afternoon, and after she collected her key from the rental company agent, she had collapsed in bed with Pod41, her tuxedo cat. He purred and kneaded her, “It’s dinner time,” she had heard  his little paws say. But she had rested on the naked mattress for close to an hour, listening to nothing but waves crashing, and her beloved pet. Perfect. Later, she would feed him, then unpack, wash the bedding the agent always claimed was clean, make her bed, go to the store, buy tequila and Cheetos, and write. Write in blissful silence. Nothing but the ocean, and her keyboard.

Every morning was the same. She got up in time to watch the sky turn orange, and to watch Pod41 eat his meal. Then she would let him sleep, and head to the private beach, where she made her sculptures. I play with sand. That’s what I do, she thought, when she imagined she was being honest with herself, but those castles were works of art. Tourists from other rental homes would walk by and admire the lines, the perfect symmetry of her creations. The smart ones stayed away and respected her privacy. The idiots, as she called them, walked over to say hello, and discuss her castles. She ignored them pointedly; never looked at them, until they walked away, uncomfortably at best, or mumbling insults at worst. She didn’t care. This was her time.

“Jesus, it’s hot. How can it be almost 90°? Madness!” But she had packed her iPod, her tools, and a towel, and had set off to make a new castle. It would only last until the tide washed it away, but until then, she would play, and tell herself the same story about its tiny inhabitant. Now she sat on the sand, and began, while Heifetz kept her company. She worked, and as she sank into the rhythm of the sand, the beginning lines of that modern home, she thought of him.

This is your home, Little One. Come talk to me. Tell me what you like. It always started that way. A secret conversation in her mind. One-sided, but fun. Today, the music almost hid the echo of a voice.

“It’s such a small house. Why have you made it so small?”

She didn’t hide her annoyance. Someone had obviously walked over to her unannounced, uninvited. But they would take the hint. She didn’t look up, or around. She certainly didn’t answer. She kept working, satisfied to imagine she would soon see whoever it was walk away and leave her alone. If they didn’t… now she wished she had brought her Taurus with her. She blinked the thought away, and sank into her activity with her mind.

Do you like this door? This is your door. Where you come in after work every day. And here I’ll put a set of windows. Do you like it?

“It’s beautiful.” The words were clear now. She realized the music had died when the concerto’s movement ended, and never came back. She groaned internally when she remembered she had not charged her iPod after she arrived. No matter. She could still ignore him. But she didn’t. However, she would not look at him!

“Thank you,” she said, with a sigh.

“Is it really for me?”

What an odd question. “Sure, why not.”

“You said it was for me.”

Psycho? I’ll just play along. “I did, didn’t I.”

“And I love the door right there. That place for the windows is perfect.”

Now she wanted to look at him, but stubbornly refused. That will only encourage him. But something alien had taken control of her lips, and she found herself helpless to stop them.

“I thought so too. See, you can imagine the living room inside. Facing away from the beach, but when he has guests, they can join him on the deck, and they can have little drinks, and watch the sunset, and talk of different things.”

“When I have guests. But I think… I only want one guest.”

Her heart was pounding. Why wasn’t she terrified? Why couldn’t she look at this rude intruder, this mad intruder, and shout at him to go away? Why did she feel she was being pulled by a current bigger than herself? She looked down and saw she had stopped sculpting. She rubbed her hands together, and started again.

“One guest is fine, but there’s room for more. He likes people, this guy. He loves people. He’s a people person. He’s kind, and he likes cats. He doesn’t like tequila, but that’s fine. More for me. He steals my Cheetos, but only one at a time. I started counting them, and finding orange dust on his little fingers and mouth, but he lies to me about it as though I’m too stupid to tell. He smiles when he lies, so I know he knows I know.”

No response… good. Maybe he was gone. But she went on.

“He likes to talk, but he knows when to be quiet. He can watch, and be happy watching. He can find things to do for himself. He’s witty, and gives good advice. He doesn’t dwell on sorrow for too long. He’s different from me that way. He can watch me cry, and he knows what to do. He’s-“ She realized she was rambling, and saying too much. She was shocked to see a little girl staring at her from across the castle.

Her voice was sweet and crystal clear when she asked, “Who are you talking to?”

Vera looked at her for a moment, and spotted the girl’s mom walking along the beach, distracted by an intense conversation on the phone. She would take the child away soon.

“The man. The man standing right here.” Now she looked around, and saw no one. “Well, he was here before.”

“There was no one there, ever. We saw you from far away, and there was never a man.”

“Chrysta!” called her mother, when she finally noticed her little girl was not by her side. Chrysta ran off, kicking sand in all directions, but not before giving Vera a disgusted look.

Vera sighed. Oh, please, let it be the end of that. She looked down at her castle, and tried to find her thread of creativity again. She stared for a long time, and gave up. Fuck it. It’s time for lunch anyway. She got up, gathered her belongings, and went back to the beach house. Mmm, pizza time! She popped a Totino’s in the oven, and looked around for Pod41. She saw him bolt downstairs, a blur of fur that stopped at her feet. “Hi, kitty! Did you have fun without me?” He didn’t accept being picked up, much to her surprise. He left her side, and walked back toward the stairs. He stood on the first step, and stared at her, his tail whipping intently.

“What? What do you want?” His eyes only opened bigger.

“Oh, I hate it when you do this. Just tell me what you want.”

Pod41 jerked his head towards the stairs, and glued his eyes on her again. “OK, upstairs we go.” As soon as she said that, he bolted upstairs. “Hey, wait for me!” She ran after him, and found him in her bedroom, scratching at a wooden floorboard. When she walked over, he stopped, and renewed his staring stance. She looked down, and saw nothing unusual. “What, you demon cat? Never seen wooden floors before?” Nothing. The cat wasn’t talking, so she knelt, and felt the board with her hand. It was lose. She began to work it, but couldn’t budge it. “Wait! I’ve got just the thing!” She ran back to her beach pack, and fetched a chisel. Back in the bedroom, she pried the floorboard up, placed in on the floor, and peeked in at the narrow space beneath the floorboards. She blinked, and refused to believe what she saw.

Downstairs, a pizza burned.

To be continued…

Inspired by the work of this amazing guy.

Choke, revisited

Remember this?

Of course you do, if you have tattooed every one of my posts to your forehead. But you haven’t, so I’ll just tell you that, years ago, when I saw the movie poster for Choke, I thought it was a perfect opportunity to create a fake movie poster. I think that’s what this, found online, is:

choke-movie-poster

It doesn’t look real, but I never saw the movie. And it doesn’t look real because it’s too much what I would want it to be. Oh, if only. If it told the story of a little man, a handsome devil who finds himself constantly placed in the panties of his beloved girlfriend, a beautiful scientist who’s invented a new fabric, a wonderful material that allows a woman to keep her man “under wraps”, without fear of tearing the material and having him drop off, or out, etc., when the man at hand shifts and moves too much.

Governments would kill for that sort of fabric technology. Countries at war; heads of state on Skype, glaring at each other; secret agents breaking into the lab, finding the little guy in his crate as they look for the formula; kidnappings, extortions, rescuing rampages… oh, it boggles the mind. But I wouldn’t care. I would fast-forward/rewind it to those parts when she puts him in there, and he protests (“it’s too hot”, “is it that time of the month?”), but he loves every minute of it.

Gah… I have to get my head on straight. I have to go pick out pumpkins.

Listen here, and listen well:

I need to know what this is:

Many of you must have some information about it. All I know right now is that it’s in German. If I wasn’t in the middle of fixing dinner I would stop everything and go on a search for it, to buy it and watch it a million times. Or stream it. No, buy it. Alright, I’m off to my giant kitchen.

That is, if I can walk. After watching that, I feel I’m both melting, and exploding.

I want these

ClimbingLeg

Some clever chap (or chit) in Turkey came up with these. The brand is Penti, and apparently I’m going to risk being kidnapped and recruited by insane fundamentalists, when I fly to Turkey to get me some. It appears they re not available locally.

How does a shrunken man take a bath?

More later. I gotta get some sleep.

Manu Pombrol
What’s he reading?


Sunday, June 11, 2017, 2:37 PM

I think it’s later now.

The day I posted the above pic was International Giantess Day, in case you didn’t know. I remember finding the image, but I only have a vague recollection of what I was going to write about it. It doesn’t matter. I’m always going to have something to say about shrinking, and tiny men, and how they bathe, and what a woman should use to clean them, etc.; but I’ll start by saying that the creator of the image above is Manu (as in Manuel, I imagine), who does not appear to have a website, but I found this, with more of his work. Some of his images are sizey in nature, some of them are just… cool.

Back to celebrating International Giantess Day by explaining to everyone how a shrunken man takes a bath. And the answer is, however I want him to do it, whenever I want him to, and for as long as I want him to.  But on International Giantess Day, it is of utmost importance that he sticks to tradition, and celebrates the beginning of that very important celebration by making himself very clean. It doesn’t matter that he’s shrunken or a regular-sized man, because on that day all people must be ready for the sudden appearance of giantesses on the horizon, and they want to celebrate. They’re not going to, if you stink.

In fact, if I were in their shoes, and out and about on MY day, the moment I peel off the roof of a house where a particularly tempting man lives so I can have some international fun with him, and find out he is unclean, and sweaty, and bitter tasting, I’d give him a bath. A blood bath. Fortunately for all little guys (and you’re all small to me), I no longer go out on IGD. I spend it at home, in the clouds, with my own little man, who is always bathed in me.

But back to smelling good:

  • As soon as the day begins, take a long soak to remove all scents from your previous day. If you live alone, a giantess that picks up anything but your own oils when she lifts you in her hold and brings you to the wind tunnel of her nostrils is not going to be very happy to detect any foreign smells on you. Make sure it’s just you she perceives.
  • It doesn’t matter if you are already owned, as a giantess will peel off your roof if she likes, and is her right to do so. If she perceives any strangeness on your skin, and hint that you have been inappropriate with yourself, or with someone who has no rights to you, all hell will break loose. You could end up in traction, or in the track of her foot.
  • Don’t wear cologne to try to mask the reek of your skin. It won’t work, as our senses are endlessly attuned to all layers of decomposition on your body. We are keenly able to detect artificial chemicals, so use a fragrance-free soap, or one on the list of approved natural scents and essential oils. For the complete list, visit IGD.gts/how-to-survive-the-day/
  • Don’t attempt to disguise your lack of foresight in cleansing yourself by then telling that giantess who has brought you to her nose and tongue and pulls you away with disgust in her expression, that you were “waiting for her to rinse you with her own-” and that’s as far as you went before she let you drop and crushed your filthy remains.
  • Think pure thoughts as you take your shower or a soak in the tub. Or impure thoughts. I forget how it goes. But do it. Your life depends on it.

That’s all for now. Rejoice the day, and live long! If you can. You probably won’t. Oh, well.

Minimiam

http://www.minimiam.com/en/goen.html is a website I found yesterday when I was doing a search for “shrunken men” but in Spanish. Minimiam, as I understand, means “mini yum” (I’m sure the vore folks will love that) (yes, we do), and it’s a duo of food photographers that place miniatures on edibles in such interesting ways that one can’t help but think of a story behind the image. As you can imagine, stories that involve small men are always going to interest me.

The two artists, Pierre Javelle and Akiko Ida, are also married. It crossed my mind for only a second, that though unlikely, it would be fun if these miniatures interacting with food and creating situations that are similar to some of the scenarios I describe to myself, are more than professional tools for the couple. I wondered if they use them for role-playing… probably in the same foolish way some have felt a temporary ray of hope that Pamela Anderson is really into vore. 🙄