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.”

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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.”

Craigslist: Shrinking Potions

ShrinkingPotions
Admit it. You want one.

It’s the weekend, I’m doing laundry and contemplating writing, and I hadn’t done one of these in a while. For many years I’ve thought of every possible ingredient I could use to develop a working shrinking formula. It’s all nonsense, of course… but I enjoy letting my mind sink its teeth into the notion. How would I do it? I’d wait for a full moon, of course. I’d light the right candles in my living room (back yard would be better, but not if I plan to be naked during the “ritual”) after taking a bath with a sliced potato I then bury. Or eat. Though I definitely will eat the potato before taking a bath with it.

As to the ingredients? All equal parts:

  • Sugar
  • The best tequila I can afford
  • My sweat (or better)
  • My breath
  • Vitamin C
  • Distilled water
  • Chocolate
  • Rain from a great day

It’s all for fun, obviously. But what if it worked? The tricky part is the delivery, of course. Will it work topically, or do I have to figure out a way for my target to ingest it? What fabulous problems I invent for myself.

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.

I should be in bed, asleep…

And I will be, soon, but I thought I’d tell you some things:

 One of my wonderful readers sent me a link to images of “Titania and Bottom”, which you will agree is an absolutely fantastic title for a painting, no matter what its subject is.

Henry_Fuseli_-_Titania_and_Bottom
“Titania and Bottom” by Henry Fuseli

I’m not going to insult your intelligence by explaining the painting to you. I will state that it would have been a much better work if some of the elements were eliminated, namely everything but Titania and the little guy reaching with his arms in pleading fashion, Thank you, reader. I enjoyed it very much, and one of these days I’ll be philistine enough to edit it to my liking.

 I’m working on my new banner on my own, since I haven’t the faintest clue who to commission for it, and I’m practicing my “art”, so I might as well do it myself. All I’ll say about it is that tentacles are fun to draw, even with a mouse.

 I’ve never gone deeply into the Lewd Side on my blog, and with my public writings. I saved all that for personal use, but now I’m readying some truly dirty posts with shocking portrayals of my likes, accompanied by my writings about them. I’m aware of your delicate nature and utter reluctance to read such filth, and I want nothing more than to protect your mind and heart from such visions. Those posts will be password-protected so that those forgotten souls that want to wallow in the lost crevasses of my mind can read and see the filth as they wish, and you can continue reading my blog and holding onto your sweet blankie that you’ve had all your life. Those perverted ones that want to bear witness to my descent into depravity can email me for the password. I’m not sure how long I’ll protect my posts you with such procedures. Probably until I feel comfortable exposing myself you in such a manner. After all I am opening a large if by no means comprehensive window to me.

 Ginger beer and vodka = yes. Apple cider and vodka = no. Heavens no. No no no.

 Hm. Something else… oh yeah, don’t be an ass. Don’t discuss those movies on Twitter or DA until after I’ve watched them. Thank you. 🙂

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”.

Valerian and the scene of a thousand triggers

“Okay, let’s have a look at you.”

[Shrieks]

“Not at me, tiger. Come on.”

[Whimpers]

“Don’t be scared. I’ll look after you.”

[Chirps]

“Come on. [Gasps] Hello.”

[Squeaks]

“Wow. You have the most incredible eyes.”

[Chirps]

[Giggles] “Okay, you’re a little scabby, so why don’t we get you a nice treatment so you can get your mojo back?”

[Purrs]

“Sound good?”

[Chirps]

“Come on. Some high-grade uranium, and you’ll be good as new. Hang on, tiger.”

I dare anyone (mostly myself) to watch the above scene in Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets, and not imagine a shrunken little individual inside that cage. I know I did. I did to the degree I had to stop watching the movie so I could talk about my feelings. Many feelings. I have a thing about cages and writing stories about the kind of living trinkets kept in such cages and what happens to those trinkets once those cages are transported to the home of their new owner. Typically, the owner looks a lot like me, and she says (the same way Laureline said to Valerian) to whatever boyfriend/husband/nearest giant around, “He’s very cute, you know? And a real charmer. You may have some competition.”

I’d say no giant can compare to the idea of a shrunken man, but I can’t say that since I perceive all giants as smaller than me.

Other great lines from the movie:

“There. That one is a male.”
“How can you tell?”
“Oh, they are much smaller than the females.”

“I thought you said they weren’t aggressive.”
“Except when you take their little buddy.”