Best posts made by Olo

L’Itiphalle (Can’t get enough of your love, Darling) by Apollonia Saintclair

So I saw this image on Christmas Eve and an idea for a smutty short story came to me. I thought I could knock it out in time to post on Christmas Day, but the wassailing had its way with me and it wasn’t finished in time. However, there are after all Twelve Days of Christmas, and so on the Fifth Day of Christmas your true Olo gives to you:

Jingle Balls; or, Beeyotch in the Crotch

Nougat stomped his feet and rubbed his arms as he waited next to the sleigh with the rest of the grooms. Just because elves had lived at the North Pole for centuries didn’t make them any more tolerant of cold, especially just after the Winter Solstice. All the reindeer had been bridled and traced, the grooms having been selected for their height and reach. Elves come in all sizes, you know.

Light spilled across the snow as the door to the Residence opened. The grooms all turned to face the porch and await the Lord of the North Pole, whose towering silhouette filled the doorway. The Father of Christmas strode down the steps to the snow with his seasonal purpose, followed closely by Chandler, the head house-elf, and the capacious figure of the Lady of the House glided serenely after.

St. Nick boarded the sleigh so lively and quick, but Chandler—no taller than 40 inches—had to scramble up to the seat, still making changes to The List. Mrs. Kringle waited patiently next to the sleigh, a wistful smile on her face as she watched her husband check everything twice.

Finally Santa called a halt to Chandler’s fussing, and the house-elf duly disembarked. The driver leaned out of the sleigh to receive a chaste but warm peck on the cheek from his wife, who whispered something in his ear that made the old teamster blush.

As soon as Mrs. Kringle and Chandler had returned inside, Nougat knew it was time for the final boarding. He stepped onto the outer rail and reached into his belt pouch. When he drew it out again it was clutching Santa’s only passenger, a mouse-elf named Twinkle. Standing three-inches-tall, Twinkle’s skin was the color of gingerbread, her short hair the color of sugar frosting. She wore only a bright red bikini, red slippers, and a tiny cap that matched Santa’s.

The jolly old man turned and looked down at the mouse-elf struggling to her feet in Nougat’s palm. “Welcome aboard,” he chortled. “Twinkle, with your face so bright, won’t you keep me warm tonight?”

Twinkle was speechless, so intoxicated was she by finally getting to participate in the Big Night. All she could manage was a vigorous nod and a stellar smile.

“Very well,” rumbled Santa, unbuckling his wide belt and unfastening his suit at his waist. “Hop in.”

She thought her head might burst through her chest, but she didn’t hesitate more than a moment before bouncing out of Nougat’s hand into the dark opening at Santa’s crotch. She landed on his woolen long underwear, and she immediately set about opening one of the buttons that would admit her all the way. She wriggled inside Santa’s underwear before he had refastened his suit or belt.

It was right there, staring at her. Thicker than she was wide, longer than she was tall, his weighty Yule Log mocked her feeble strength. As dazzled as she was, Twinkle knew her duty lay below, and she squirmed down between Santa’s mighty thighs. She was in near-total darkness as she stretched herself out beneath his massive ballsack. This was her charge from that moment until dawn.

The determined mouse-elf pressed her face into the ceiling of furry wrinkled flesh. Santa had recently bathed of course, but her proximity and elfin senses let her detect lingering hints of cocoa, cardamom, and cum. The circumference of Santa’s scrotum exceeded her grasp but she reached all her limbs out nonetheless. Her solemn and crucial task was to keep Santa’s balls warm for the whole of this Night of Nights.

Santa cracked his whip and the motion was doubled by his kegel muscles, which pressed Twinkle into the cushioned bench. She wondered how much closer she could get to Santa’s skin as the loose layers of his sack flowed over, around, and even a bit under her. She even considered using her paltry magic to make herself even smaller, wedging herself into the juncture of his scrotum and thigh. But then Santa’s balls would bleed heat into the upper reaches of the December night and he wouldbe unable to continue his momentous flight. Millions of children around the world were depending on her, on Twinkle the mouse-elf.

She embraced the weight of Santa’s balls with a renewed fire. By gentle but methodical probing with all of her limbs she was able to discern the size and location of each of his testes along with the vas deferens, blood vessels, and other ductules that, just like her, serviced the delicate organ.

Twinkle also identified Santa’s cremaster muscle, nominally responsible for regulating the temperature of the testicles by reflexively raising or lowering them. If she lapsed in her duty she would notice it there first. Take it easy, buddy, she thought. I got this.

It didn’t take her long to find a rhythm and a pattern for slowly orbiting her limbs over and among the various anatomical landmarks she had identified. Her aim was to maximize the area she covered for transferring heat while avoiding causing any discomfort or arousal. A distracted Santa would be almost as bad as a chilled Santa.

When he left the sleigh to make a delivery, Twinkle dug her extremities into his swaying sack and endured the jostling as best she could, her duty momentarily obviated by the heat generated by Santa’s immense thighs flexing and straining on either side of her. The odors of seat and chimney soot permeated his underwear, threatening to cause Twinkle to swoon, but the reverberating sound of Santa’s calling to his team kept her on task.

Swimming with Santa’s balls, she became attuned to the songs of his pulse and his lymphatic flows. As his fluids and organs drew the heat from her elfin body, her heart-flame burned even hotter. Her backside—including her tiny tushie—faced away from Santa’s sack and suffered the most from exposure to the cold night air, but she kept telling herself that the night couldn’t last forever.

Occasionally one of Santa’s testes would get jumbled to the edge of his sack, which bulged out between Twinkle’s legs. It took all of her discipline and sense of duty not to just start humping these bulges when they appeared.

As the night wore on and more of her body heat passed into Santa’s balls, the more his crotch began to feel like her natural habitat. She found it difficult to remember a separate existence when she walked on her own and talked freely with other elves, when she played and danced and sung for herself. She was now dedicated to this floppy fluffy bag, as stuffed with mojo as the Big Bag was stuffed with presents. Her little mouse-elf heart kept them all warm the entire night.

Twinkle almost felt rudely interrupted when the sleigh landed a final time and the night was filled with rapturous applause and cheers. Santa had finished his deliveries and returned to the North Pole. She had performed her duty so he could perform his. Another Christmas in the book.

She held on as Santa disembarked from the sleigh and received the usual hearty congratulations from all the other elves. It only then occurred to her that her responsibility had come to an end and that she was now at liberty in Santa’s crotch. She gingerly climbed up the front of his sack and peered upward.

Even though the sun must have already risen on Christmas Day, there was very little light inside Santa’s underwear. Nevertheless, there was no mistaking the hulk that slumped over the sack and pointed its one eye at Twinkle. All of her limbs were burning and aching for rest, but she forgot all that as a wide grin broke out beneath her merry dimples.

She spoke not a word but went straight to her work, scrambling up his ballsack and embracing his cock, which was filling itself up to greet the morn. A blink of her eyes and her clothes magically vanished. She peeled Santa’s foreskin back and pressed her face into the tender reddening head. Her immediate reward was a renewed and recharged “Ho ho ho!” as the bowl of jelly shook above her.

Twinkle scarcely noticed when Santa began to walk with urgency, as she was engrossed with flinging her body up over the length of Santa’s swelling log while nuzzling his cockhead. She had felt his pulse against her body when she was warming his balls, but that contact had been intermittent and pliable. Now his rod between her legs and under her torso was rigid and his veins pumped just below the surface. As it elevated, Twinkle ceased to care about anything other than holding on and tasting Santa’s candy cane.

She shimmied upward, her eyes locked on his pisshole. Her neck strained as she positioned her head over the top and reached her tongue out to slide along the inner rim. Twinkle wasn’t sure what she expected it to taste like, but her first impression was something close to spiced apple cider. Her mount surged in response, but she was in no danger of losing her grip.

Eventually she became aware of Santa’s belt being unbuckled and his suit being unfastened. Glancing at his taut thighs, she noted that he seemed still to be standing and his gut was still emitting satisfied rumblings. Heedless of her imminent exposure she lifted Santa’s foreskin again and wedged her face underneath, sniffing and licking as deep as she could.

As the blinding light fell upon Santa’s open crotch, Twinkle raised her besotted face and looked straight into the eyes of Mrs. Kringle, who appeared to be kneeling before Santa. “Why, if it isn’t Twinkle!” she exclaimed. “Did you keep Papa’s eggs warm all night?”

Without waiting for an answer, Mrs. Kringle leaned forward and cupped Santa’s balls in her hand. Twinkle looked down at the flesh sack that had been her responsibility with poignant pride, so she didn’t see Mrs. Kringle’s open mouth descend and engulf Santa’s cock—and her—until it was too late.

Heat and darkness again enclosed the mouse-elf, but this time she was the object of the embrace. Mrs. Kringle’s tongue surged against the underside of Santa’s cock, which brutally pinned Twinkle against Mrs. Kringle’s palate. A delicate moan arose from Mrs. Kringle’s throat as her head bobbed up and down on her husband’s engorged log. It was all Twinkle could do to keep clear of the larger woman’s jaws as the air pressure and saliva conspired to create waves of tremendous suction upon both the giant dick and the tiny elf.

Despite the turbulence she endured, Twinkle continued to anticipate the responses of Santa’s cock, and so she was bereft when Mrs. Kringle lifted her head and Twinkle’s mount withdrew, leaving her alone in the dark with Mrs. Kringle’s restless tongue. She flung herself headlong onto the powerful muscle, abandoning herself to the fate of becoming Christmas breakfast.

Mrs. Kringle’s tongue did indeed toss Twinkle’s unresisting body, not down her gullet but gently between her lips into the cool light. When Twinkle opened her eyes, she could see that Mrs. Kringle was lying on their bed. She was wearing a diaphanous gown, but it was open and she might as well have been nude. Her soft and saggy flesh lay sprawled over the deep red bedsheet, only her upper torso and head elevated above the goose-down mattress.

Before the mouse-elf could orient herself, Mrs. Kringle leaned forward and ejected Twinkle from her mouth and let her slide onto her chest, where she was met by Mrs. Kringles’s broad and pendulous breasts, shoved together to immure Twinkle in the most peaceful avalanche she had ever known. She was totally surrounded and suspended in a cocoon of tranquility. She was more than ready for her long winter’s nap.

Instead, Mrs. Kringle released Twinkle to continue her slow descent over her flabby abdomen and down to her crotch. Like Santa, Mrs. Kringle had white pubes, but they were fine and silky. All out of strength, Twinkle let herself roll over Mrs. Kringle’s mound and drop onto the mattress. She might never have moved again, until she heard her Master’s chuckle.

Lifting her head from the mattress, Twinkle saw that Santa was now standing at the foot of the bed, wearing nothing but a droll little smile and a raging boner. This last sight spurred her to her feet, and she gazed up at the white-haired giant who had just brought peace and joy to the whole world for another year. He looked down dotingly on the little mouse-elf who had helped make it possible. He had one last gift to deliver.

Santa lay his finger aside of his nose, and Twinkle felt a magical force take hold of her ankles. He gave a nod, and that force suddenly jerked her backward off her feet. Seeing the direction and momentum of his member, she at last felt relief as her body flew away like the down of a thistle. Up Mrs. Kringle’s cunt she rose, but she heard him exclaim ere she dove out of sight, “Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good fuck!”

(Breaking my rule against posting F/f)

Gym Twit by CeilingSocket

Follow link for 60-second video with sound!

(source needed) (seems it had the same inspiration as this)

@miss-lillipants This is brilliant.

MINUS-19

[chef’s kiss]

There’s a pair of tasty Jehovah’s Witnesses at the bus stop every morning. One day I’m gonna take 'em home in my pocket and show them my testimony.

@i-am-insane said:

I can’t go anywhere size-y without seeing them because they’re everywhere.

They’re the reason that, when someone asks me about size fantasy, I don’t tell them to simply Google it.

@dr-tol Sweet. Luscious. So fragile, so precious. I’d curl my immense body around her to protect her, just to feel her fluttering heart against my skin. Look up at me, darling, and let me hold you forever.

@miss-lillipants [OOC comments]

Freaky and enticingly open-ended. The shock-collar mechsuits were clever, fiendishly introduced after the physical side effects started taking their toll.

I initially read “CIs” as “cis,” which is (pace Elon Musk) a perfectly cromulent way to refer to people whose bodies haven’t been transformed.

I hope that in the end Dr. Too Little accepted the price she had to pay for witnessing such a miracle.

@tinyborrower said in Sex Objects:

It is weird trying to attribute positive traits to ‘masculinity’ that don’t feel heavily steeped in gender roles. But I think the same could be said of ‘femininity’.

Exactly. Responsible adults are responsible adults, and it has nothing to do with sex or gender.

@SmolChlo said:

Can’t tell if there’s more of them or if their just louder

One way to think of it is as another iteration of the same gatekeeping behavior guys (online and off) engage in regarding their fandoms. I’ve seen it in comic books, video games, sci-fi, sports, and of course politics. As @Nyx said, GTSbros are extremely vocal, and since they think they invented size fantasy any deviation from their specific scenario is “wrong.”

@i-am-insane:

It’s very… I don’t know, it makes me think of a death cult, sometimes.

I think at least part of this goes back to the poor self-image some of these guys seem to cultivate. They are attracted to women but they have convinced themselves that they have nothing to offer women, so the only satisfactory resolution is to have women destroy them. Reading their stories, these acts of destruction are invariably provoked by some selfish and entitled male behavior that needs to be punished. They feel that they are programmed to be selfish jerks, so they expect women to naturally agree to destroy them.

The key element here is that is an entirely self-absorbed fantasy that violently resists any input from others, least of all from any woman that is exposed to it. This isn’t roleplaying or fantasy-sharing, it’s narcissistic projection. When someone challenges or deviates from this “standard” fantasy, it’s a threat to their self-image so they feeled justified in harrassing the person who has different preferences. They can’t just let different folks get different strokes; we have to be silenced because we’re “ruining Giantess.”

@protect-tinies said:

One of the major differences between men and women is that women can’t feel sexually attracted to a man who they don’t respect.

I’m gonna have to disagree with this. Some straight women absolutely can be sexually attracted to men who they feel are beneath them (some of them insist upon it). Some of them need a man to look up to (heh). Some want an equal partner. All these preferences are valid and none of them say anything about such women’s character, intelligence, maturity, politics, or anything else.

@SmolChlo said:

The only time you’ll see the Giantess in me come out is on DA. Let me catch you being rude to a fellow M/f fan

As fearsome as tiny Emma on Gen V. She straight-up killed a guard by jumping into his ear and tunneling through to the other ear. Badass SW, she was.

I suppose I have to put in a #NotAllGiantessFans disclaimer, because I know several F/m fans who are into destruction/crush/fatal scenarios but who are also respectful people who don’t try to force others into performing according to their demands. There’s nothing inherently toxic about the destructive Giantess rampage scenario, it’s just got a vocal and embarrassing contingent of fans.

by Serge Czerefkov from a 1928 edition of Pierre Louÿs’s Aphrodite

@Nyx I know it’s your jam, but if I were Silas there’s no way I’d leave my armored gloves on for the fondling.

@HentaiHunter1 My favorite dipping sauce for tinies is olive oil.

The other hazard of ingesting tinies is that if they are drunk or on other drugs, the pre-metabolization gives the altering substance a far stronger effect on the pred.