This just came up on coiled fist. This site needs to see it, too. It’s more cute than sexy since it’s a family scene. In my ideal version of this ad, the “wife” visits Texaco alone. Or heaven forbid for the 1950’s, a single gal visits Texaco alone!

https://youtu.be/dmTmKfJOyMA?si=TqGqUl1pPfXM8vo9

@TakoAlice8 oh yep. I’ve felt this. I definitely envy male gts fans. It drives me nuts that they’ve dominated the discourse about this fetish too.

One way it’s been particularly annoying is that for video content, I can’t really stand most videos, because I am absolutely taken out of the fantasy by bad acting on the giant’s part. I already have enough trouble believing in the scene while watching the video, bad acting ruins it for me. Because of this I only like a handful of creators who make moody giant man videos with no dialogue, and CG artists.

And the CG artists are overwhelmingly giantess artists. There is no 3d artist making high quality, clip-length videos about vore or large size differences with giant men. I am just barely bisexual enough to enjoy Wiiking’s videos. (The Locker Room , etc.) He’s an absolute master of 3d vore movies, but it’s ALWAYS women around shrunken women and men. I’ve fantasized about being rich and commissioning him for many months of his time to make just one M/f vore masterpiece. But I may as well just fantasize about a giant dude being real at that rate!

It’s frustrating being in a niche part of a niche subculture! I’m there with you!

Blurb:
Robert Durmoch bought the controlling shares of a news company, but he is enraged to learn that its leadership doesn’t believe he has any authority over their broadcasts. He decides to end the power struggle in his own way.

M/fff
CW: non-con, messy, vague gore, fatal crushing

===========================================================================

"I can't believe the filth your show aired on national network television. You created a disgusting celebration of perversion."

A 50-something, well-fed white man in a Gucci lounge suit was loudly whining on a video conference call on Sarah's computer monitor. She shifted in her office chair uncomfortably. Who was this random rich asshole to tell her, both the Editor in Chief and Executive Producer, how to run her newsroom?

"We aired a nuanced discussion of the current controversy of queer people wearing kink attire at LGBTQ Pride celebrations. The long history of the kink subcultures in the gay liberation movement is worth exploring, to give the recent controversy larger context. There was nothing more salacious in the footage or the descriptions that our show aired than what one can see on a visit to a typical beach."

"Pfaw, yeah, maybe at Gunnison," Mr. Durmoch retorted reflexively.

Gunnison was a clothing-optional beach on the Jersey Shore, about an hour south of Manhattan, in good traffic. It was the only nude beach within driving distance of the region, making it a frequent stop for nudists like Sarah.

Nothing particularly sexual really happened at that beach, it was mostly just people trying to get a better tan. But conservative outsiders always assumed the worst about nudists.

There's no way a Connecticut man like Mr. Durmoch knew about this beach so far from his own mansion unless he was a nudist, too, or a pervert who liked to watch naked people, but this was a conference call, with a dozen other people on it, and Sarah could do nothing about that reference right now but flush beneath her makeup and pretend that she didn't recognize it. She was a totally normal person at work. She left her bohemian hobbies, her femme-domme pegging kink, her cuck husband, and their happy, consensual polyamory entirely at home. Nobody at work even knew that she was bisexual.

"Gunnison?" Sarah asked, as innocently as she could make her voice sound.

"Oh, it's a…" Mr. Durmoch sputtered, caught in a type of knowledge a conservative, Christian billionaire like himself shouldn't have. "Some nude beach this New Jersey representative whom I summer with complains about. Lots of pervs and weirdos go there," he said, and cleared his throat. "It's truly foul," he finished, and then got back to ranting about how evil the latest episode of "Deep Dives Into America" was.

Sarah hid her smirk from the computer's video camera, but snapped a wooden pencil in half beneath her desk, wanting so badly to laugh at this blowhard's hypocrisy. She waited for him to finish.

"Thank you for sharing your perspective, Mr. Durmoch. I have heard complaints like this from conservative viewers, as well, but that isn't our target demographic at 'Deep Dives'. I don't think we'll see eye-to-eye on the content of this episode. But I feel I must remind you that all editorial decisions lie within this newsroom, not with any of the shareholders."

Mr. Durmoch smirked when Sarah brought up her newsroom.

"Your newsroom only exists at my behest, missy," he said, with rising intensity and volume in his voice.

Anger flashed through Sarah in a hot wave. Nobody spoke down to her like this in any area of her life and got away with it. She started drafting the harassment lawsuit in her head.

"As of last month, I'm the controlling shareholder of PureWater Media Group."

Steven Grier, the chairman of that company's board, spoke up for a syllable, his video icon flashing active.

"Uh-"

"Let me finish!" Mr. Durmoch cut him off. Steven stopped talking out of surprise more than anything.

"This means that I own every single last one of you on the 30th floor of that ugly glass tower. Your entire newsroom, your whole vile journalistic domain that makes you feel like a mighty queen of television, is nothing more than one of my many playthings, little Ms. Can-Have-It-All. I will not tolerate such public displays of perversion from one of my personal belongings."

Sarah had the gallery view on, and she saw the women on the board, and the executive leadership of PureWater, with their mouths now open in disbelief. The men mostly looked uncomfortable.

Mary Collins, the CEO of PureWater, who was Sarah's boss, spoke up first.

"I know that tensions run high about controversial topics like the definition of public decency, Mr. Durmoch. And we are all well aware of your outspoken political views, as well as your history of requiring conservative-themed programming in Durmoch Broadcasting's many consolidated media outlets. But your rant right now was an uncalled-for collection of insults against Sarah, whom I have met several times since she started as a segment editor, and whom I know is both a morally sound TV producer, and a cracking good journalist.

Sarah is also the leader of the worker's union at her newsroom, which, as I explained to you personally at our last face-to-face meeting, has a legally binding agreement with this company's board. That agreement clearly states that 100% of the staffing and editorial control for 'Deep Dives' comes from within their own organization. I was in the room with you when you signed the documents that claimed that you understand that you have no authority over any of the unionized divisions of PureWater."

Mr. Durmoch let out a dismissive "pssh" sound, like a teenager who wasn't paying attention to a lecture from a teacher, and turned away from the camera. He started staring at something off camera, to the side of the desk in his mahogany-accented office.

He returned his gaze to the camera, and narrowed his blue eyes.

"We'll see," was his last statement, before he disconnected from the call.

The rest of the callers took a moment of silence to process this emotionally volatile display. Some wondered how a media mogul this powerful, who still controlled hundreds of other newsrooms around the world, was so easily angered by being disobeyed at just one TV program.

This was not the first time in Sarah's life that a powerful man who saw themselves as an authority figure despite their irrelevant job title disapproved of her editorial decisions. Sarah assumed that it wouldn't be the last.

===============================================================

"Deep Dives Into America" was a weekly documentary show put together by Deep Dives LLC, which took up the entire 30th floor of the tower named simply 35 Broad Street, after its street address, located in downtown Manhattan. Putting an hour of timely, insightful journalism together each week took a lot of talent - there were 48 employees who worked on that floor.

35 Broad Street was a gleaming glass skyscraper, 40 stories high, built in the 1960's. It sat as close to the water as you could get in the neighborhood, with only the wide highway in between. When the employees had to stay past dark, they didn't mind so much, because when they went to the western windows, they could see the sunset over the Hudson. On some evenings, the setting sun would light up downtown with orange-pink glowing edges. It was breathtaking.

Another perk of the tower was the peaceful little plaza right next to the building, at its eastern entrance. This tulip-filled pocket park was where one of the building's security guards, Gloria, was taking a cigarette break right before 10 am on the day after the conference call.

Gloria walked to the fountain at the center of the plaza, and watched as several birds splashed in the water. The whole flock took off at once, and flew east. In the sky far above, she saw several more flocks of birds flying in the same direction. She wondered if a storm was coming in.

That didn't make sense - the sky was clear of clouds, with no wind.

Gloria heard a new sound, then, one that she took a moment to make sense of. It was like a crowd at a concert, but more muffled, and somehow, less joyful. She finally placed it: people on the street on the western side of the building were screaming in terror.

Gloria stamped her cigarette out, abruptly ending her break. She ran back into the building and sprinted past the security desk.

"What is it?" her boss asked.

"A crowd is screaming," she said over her shoulder, and he followed her to the western side of the building.

Tourists and downtown workers were streaming into 35 Broad and crowding the entrance. None of them had building ID cards, so they were jamming up the limited space in the western lobby between the waist-level security gates and the rotating entrance doors.

Gloria elbowed her way through the crowd and came to a now-empty sidewalk. Across the street was a short, three-story-high historic building, and looming above that, in the distance, she witnessed an absolutely unbelievable thing.

Climbing out of the Hudson River, onto the fortified banks of the tree-filled Battery Park, just three blocks to the west of Gloria's building, was a horrifically enlarged man. He was at least sixty stories tall, around 50 or 60 years old, overweight even for his scale, and wearing a black Armani suit, complete with a tailor-fit jacket, and a matching bright red tie and pocket square.

Even from this far away, his face looked familiar. Gloria had given this man a security pass for this building the month before. His name was Robert Durmoch. She had no idea how he was now a behemoth.

The amazingly enlarged man stood up, and shook the water off of him. He wrung out his coat, and patted his pants as dry as he could. He shook his legs, one at a time, crashing his huge feet into trees in the park, and barrel-sized drops of river water went everywhere. The soft, fine fabric of his expensive suit dried out fast.

While this was happening, pedestrians were streaming towards shelter, into buildings and subway stations. Drivers were stopped in traffic, staring up at the spectacle. Bus operators didn't know whether to follow their route and go towards the bus depot at Battery Park, or to try and save the lives of their passengers, and try to turn around.

It was pure chaos.

The giant looked directly at Gloria's building. His icy blue gaze was pointed towards the middle section, and he was smiling in a salacious way, like a coked-up single man who had just spotted a beautiful woman across the room at a party. He started walking towards 35 Broad.

Gloria ran back inside, through the panicked crowd, and returned to the main security desk on the eastern side of the building. The official rule during disasters was to prevent any outsiders from coming into or out of the building until more information was known, in case of a terrorist in the crowd.

"Giant Media Mogul" wasn't in the emergency procedures manual. The security team decided that they should let the current lobby crowd into the gates, and direct them towards the food court in the basement floor, simply because it had enough space, and a panicked crowd with nowhere to go can be as dangerous as a terrorist.

As security was directing the crowd downstairs, Gloria tried to recognize another sound. This one was rhythmic, and low-pitched, shaking the whole block. As the sound got closer, she noticed the accents of metal being crushed, along with blood-curdling screams. This sound was the giant's footsteps, and the screams were from the occupants of cars that his bus-long loafers were turning into a mixed-texture paste underneath thousands of tons of weight.

The footsteps came closer and closer. Their horrible cacophony was coming from the highway to the south now, where no windows in the lobby faced, and then, as Gloria stared through the floor-to-ceiling windows on the eastern side of the lobby, a giant black loafer slammed down onto her beloved plaza fountain. It cracked the solid cement on one side, and gallons of water flowed out.

Gloria was too terrified of this disaster to be sad about the park that she enjoyed being destroyed.

The second leather shoe came into view with a loud, floor-shaking thud. The giant man then backed up, before he knelt, looking at one of the many floors above the lobby closely. Gloria had stopped doing her job, caught up in staring at the feet of the monstrous being, hoping that this kneeling inspection, and this show of force with these huge footsteps, was all he was after.

"Yes, very impressive, Mr. Durmoch, now please, leave, we're all very amazed and horrified," she said to herself, a panicked, muttered prayer to a being who wouldn't take her directions even if he could hear.

Instead of leaving, the giant made some clanging sounds with metal objects high in the air. Then, thousands of pounds of fine black silk fell to the ground in a heap at his feet, sounding like an enormous parachute billowing down. Heaped like this, his crumpled slacks were two stories high around his merino-sock-clad ankles.

The lobby erupted in a new round of screams.

This was not going to get any easier for any of the people in this city.

===============================================================

Sarah couldn't believe her eyes when she first took sight of the giant shareholder. She was writing an email to a producer when she first heard the sounds of commotion coming from Broad street on the western side of the building.

Even though this wasn't her own office, ClearWater CEO Mary Collins had come into "Deep Dive" headquarters today to help Sarah strategize on how to process Mr. Durmoch's inappropriate behavior. They expected him to launch a smear campaign against her, using his other media outlets that he controlled. Nobody expected this ill-tempered shareholder would somehow turn himself into a monstrosity that could win in a sumo wrestling match against Godzilla.

"Is that-" Mary asked.

"Mr. Durmoch," Sarah replied.

"Holy shit."

The oversized billionaire looked directly at their floor on their tower, and the anticipation on his face froze the two women in fear.

As he walked down the wide lanes of Water Street, crushing car after car on his way, Sarah winced with horror at the sound of the screaming people, and the sight of the crumpled messes he left in each footprint. Her journalism school instincts kicked in, and she started recording a video on her phone. This footage would be priceless to their show later. It could get them a Pulitzer Prize, or an Emmy.

As the monstrosity walked down the highway on the southern side of the building, the people on the upper floors could see him through their full-height glass windows. He was savoring each footstep, and the look on his face was disturbingly pleasured.

"Attention tenants," the Fire Marshall's voice came over the building's emergency PA system. "We are aware of the… unusual incident currently approaching the building. Please shelter in place. The authorities have been alerted. Do not, I repeat, do not evacuate."

Half of the employees on their floor ignored this, and ran towards the fire exits. They knew from the quarterly fire safety drills not to use the elevators, but they also knew about the fireproof cement staircase in the center of the building that lead to the street.

Sarah, along with about twenty of the more courageous workers, stayed behind. Many of them were also recording video.

"And there's my boss, and queen of the union, Sarah," the head video editor for the show said to his phone, panning to her, narrating the unreal destruction with a sing-songy YouTube narrator voice.

Sarah heard him, but she didn't react. She wanted to record her footage without commentary.

As the giant headed towards the plaza, the employees noticed that his soft silk pants were thinly concealing an erection. This sadistic, huge man was getting off on crushing living human beings.

In his final approach, it became clear that this monster was so insanely tall, that at the 30th floor, their office was eye-level with the giant's crotch. He stood next to the building, and the entire office held their breath, staring at what looked like a seven-story-tall erection tenting at the front of the enormous black slacks.

Mr. Durmoch backed up a little, to get a better angle to kneel, and brought his huge face to the windows.

The private accounting firm on the 32nd floor, and the insurance company on the 31st, both screamed in horror, as an enormous pair of eyes looked through them, before moving down.

The giant's eyes reached the 30th floor, and he stopped moving his head, finally finding the office he was familiar with, from back when he was small enough to walk through it normally. He grinned like he had won a prize and poked a huge hole through the glass with his wrecking-ball-like fingertip. The feeling of being hungrily stared at by this unfathomably powerful being was too much to bear against the intact survival instincts of a few of the remaining employees. They ran toward the exit.

There were now 17 people left in the newsroom, watching their enlarged foe's every move, holding their breath with anticipation, and taking video. The giant man stood back up to full height, which was taller than the skyscraper he was playing with. With a loud clang, Robert Durmoch undid his belt, letting his pants fall. This revealed a stretchy black pair of boxer briefs that barely covered his raging erection. He slid his fabric-covered cock against the glass.

"Oh, no…" the editor said, his voice losing all hope. The pathetically outmatched worker looked at the exits, deciding whether to stay or leave.

The giant stepped back a few steps, destroying the rest of the paved plaza under his feet. He pulled his briefs down to his knees, before stooping down, to bring the underwear to his ankles.

He took off his shoes and kicked them lazily to the right, where they landed upside-down, trapping dozens of people in traffic-stalled vehicles beneath their bulk. Mr. Durmoch then unpeeled his long trouser socks from his hairy legs and bare feet, before tossing their balled-up shapes to the left. They bounced off the half-crushed cars stuck on the highway, and then into the bay, bumping into the side of a ferry. He raised his chubby, still-clothed torso up again, and while standing on one leg, shoved his empty pants behind him with the other foot, crashing the great mass of black fabric into the skyscraper behind the plaza. His crumpled pants crushed half the security team in the neighboring tower who had been watching with horror in the lobby.

His last impediment to movement was his underwear. He grabbed his briefs off the ground and tossed them away over his back without giving a thought to where they'd land.

The enormous undergarments soared in a slow arc towards a residential highrise nearby. A crowd of residents had gathered on the luxury building's rooftop patio to watch the attack. Sweaty, musty black fabric suddenly covered the entire roof, trapping more than thirty residents. A few of these spectators were killed just from being under a folded part of the briefs, as hundreds of pounds of cloth fell onto their heads.

Back at 35 Broad, the giant man was now fully nude from the waist down. All of the workers in the building who hadn't already fled were instead staring with horror at the attacker, whose intentions were now fully clear. He grabbed his thick penis shaft with his meaty fist and stroked it slowly. Gallons of precum oozed of his piss slit. He rubbed the natural fluid up and down his length. He licked his lips with anticipation.

Some of the trapped office workers had hoped that the giant just wanted to show off his monstrous cock, like an amplified dick pic. But this stroking sealed their fate.

"Are you ready, bitches?" Robert said, and placed his precum-wetted index finger right against the hole he had made on the newsroom's window earlier.

The remaining "Going Deep" employees scattered to the left and right of the now-moistened hole, hoping that they were escaping the penetration target.

Sarah and Mary both went to the right of the opening, open-mouthed, staring in abject terror at the eight-story-tall erection that the huge man was pointing directly at their window. The head of the penis was like a clear-slime-covered alien monster, thicker than any tree anyone there had seen other than redwoods, with a two-foot-wide vertical hole in the middle standing in as a featureless mouth.

The giant flexed his hips back, and gripped the building on the sides, his six-foot-wide fingertips finding purchase on the steel beams on the corners of the building.

"You know what's deeply ironic?" Sarah screamed to the rest of the employees over the sound of the workers whimpering, and the loud thuds and glass breaking from the giant's hands gripping the building.

"Robert Durmoch's whole disagreement with us was about our show encouraging public indecency. What's more publicly indecent than this?" Sarah yelled passionately, gesturing for her life, hoping one of the camera phones recording her would broadcast this out before the whole building and all its people collapsed into dead rubble.

"You'd think that a Yale Business School graduate like him would be able to recognize the HYPOCRISY-"

In the middle of Sarah's speech, Robert's huge, moistened dick crashed through the floor directly behind her. The enormous phallus shoved through a brand new hole several stories below, aiming for the tip to be on this floor. The phallus crashed past the floor, computers, and office furniture, and the dick tip came to rest behind Sarah. The floor beneath her buckled, and she fell backwards, landing on and sticking to the tip of the eight-foot-diameter cockhead, directly on top of the urethra. The fall backwards knocked the wind out of her, ending her speech.

Mr. Durmoch paused at the top of his deep stroke, and let out a short moan, savoring his complete superiority to the office he was fucking like a fleshlight.

Sarah was struggling like a fly in a glue trap, not strong enough to peel herself off the precum-wet glans. Her high-heel-covered feet were dangling helplessly four feet off of the slanted, groaning floor. This brief stop in the giant's movements gave Mary the CEO a chance to save her favorite subordinate. In the split second pause, Mary ran forward, and lept, grabbing Sarah's ankles, trying to yank her off of the horrible body part.

Mr. Durmoch quickly pulled out his dick. It moved down the improvised debris-covered shaft he had just made like a freakish, fleshy elevator. The speed of the movement knocked Mary off of the floor as well, and she fell onto the bottom half of the slimy glans.

Sarah and Mary, two high-powered, professionally acclaimed women, were now just as significant to this enormous man as stray pubic hairs that interrupt sex by having to be removed from someone's sensitive genitals. Mr. Durmoch took notice of the pair of squirming, insect-sized people immediately, and grabbed them both from his cockhead with his thick fingers. He brought his hand up to his icy blue eyes to see who these tiny people were, and smiled maliciously.

"Exactly the two I was looking for," he said. His breath went past them in a blast of humid wind. Based on the smell, he had enjoyed an onion-filled breakfast and a hazelnut coffee before he had enlarged.

"I'm so honored that Sarah, Union Queen, and Mary, CEO Extraordinaire, could join me in this executive negotiation," Mr. Durmoch said. The two women screamed for mercy.

"Please, Mr. Durmoch! Let's start over! You can have full editorial control!" Sarah yelled, begging for her life. She looked down toward the plaza below, and the height from here to the ground was a deadly drop. She was completely at her huge foe's mercy.

"It's too late for that," he said. "You both had the chance to respect my authority as an expert on the moral majority that you urban elites don't understand. That was before you two forced me to whip out my growth ray with your insubordination."

"How can you call yourself moral?" Sarah screamed, feeling hopeless, but still enraged by his faux piety.

As if in answer, Mr. Durmoch turned his huge hand upwards, and let the two women tumble from his fingertips to the center of his palm. He then gripped the base of his dick again, squeezing the two executive women against the length of his cock as he jerked off, using his hands on his shaft to move the rest of his dick's sensitive skin up and down.

Sarah and Mary's senses were completely enveloped by the giant's every move: his hand behind them, his warm, pulsing dick in front of them, the precum and sweat surrounding them, soaking their fashionable wardrobes down to their underwear. His various fluids got into their eyes, stinging them with saltiness, and into their mouths. It tasted like the beginnings of giving a blowjob, but magnified to an impossible degree by its sheer quantity. They were drowning in foreplay.

The precum-covered pair struggled to breathe, as he only let fresh air into the cavity in his palm when he adjusted his grip every now and then. They choked, and coughed, and sputtered, and squirmed, instinctively trying to get away, but there was no place to go. They were terrified of being crushed onto his dick, but the pressure he put onto that part of his palm was carefully moderated, to keep them alive.
Mr. Durmoch had imagined this scenario hundreds of times since he bought the growth ray a few years ago. He had practiced being careful with tiny victims by playing with bug-sized, hand-made clay human figurines, that he bought in Chinatown from an artist who made traditional bonsai-themed sculptures for tourists. "They're for a Chinese-themed part of my model railroad, I need at least a hundred," he had lied then.

As much as he had enjoyed the imaginary power trip with those clay practice sculptures, these real, live, tiny women were worlds apart. Their desperate squirms against the bottom of his dick shaft shot pleasure through his body, and made this past-middle-aged man approach climax as fast as he used to when he was in college.

The 15 remaining "Deep Dive" employees stayed on their office floor, not able to look away from the horror that was taking place in front of them. The giant was not thrusting his dick all the way to the top of the makeshift tunnel into their office floor, instead, he was jerking its tip in and out of the bottom of the long hole. People around the world tuned into the video livestream to watch the cockhead going in and out of the bottom of the tall hole from the perspective of the newsroom's horrified occupants.

"Oh, yes," Mr. Durmoch groaned as quietly as his huge vocal chords could manage. His huge, well-padded hips started bucking involuntarily, and the muscles holding up his enormous balls filled with tanker-trucks worth of cum tensed up. In one last, smooth motion, he pulled his dick out all the way from the building, placed the two squirming businesswomen onto the slimy top, and then thrust his member all the way up to the end of the building's debris-filled fuck hole.

The newsroom employees stepped back as the titanic cock head came into their space for the second time, with the two horrified executives stuck to its wet tip again. A plumbing-like gurgle came from the huge organ for a fraction of a second before a stream of white cum blasted from the dick's slit like a bursting water main. A gooey wad of cum stuck to the outside glass wall of the large conference room, with Sarah and Mary in the front of it, their limbs squirming frantically.

More ropes of cum followed, coating the rest of the employees, the ceiling, the floor, and the office furniture in white, sticky, musty gunk. The giant groaned loudly. The sound rattled the windows in the skyscraper that his belly and dick was currently pushed up against, and he flexed his hips back, pulling his cock out.

A trail of cum mixed with furniture and newsroom employees followed the dick out into the open air. Mr. Durmoch stepped back, and wiped the residue off of his dick with his right hand. He looked at what he had picked up, and noticed that there were computers and desks, and, apparently, three women and a man now on his messy right hand. He didn't recognize any of them. They must have been nobodies - non-executives.

If Sarah and Mary weren't there, they must be somewhere inside the tubular cavity he had just removed his member from. The hole's exterior edges were dripping with his cum, and its jagged sides were crumbling.

Robert Durmoch hired other people to clean up his messes. He would never stoop so low as to look through his own tucked-away cum pile for specific victims. Sarah and Mary, if they were still alive, had received his message loudly enough for now.

It was time for a relaxing walk back up the crumbly highways to his comfortable Connecticut estate. Without any passengers.

With a dismissive flick of his wrist, Mr. Durmoch created g-forces that would knock out a fighter pilot. This ejected the debris-filled cum from his fingers. The wad of semen, furniture, and four people hit the neighboring skyscraper faster than a car crash.

Mr. Durmoch put his pants back on, and then his shoes, minus his now-harbor-sunk socks. He looked backwards at where his underwear had landed, and smiled, amused at the police helicopter hovering over the fabric-and-people tangle on the apartment building's roof.

"Ooh, how unfortunate for you on that roof. It's just the luck of the drawers," he joked, mostly to himself, as he turned around, and started his terrible stroll back home. This was the best he had felt in decades. The growth ray effect would be wearing off in less than eight hours, but he considered just using it again once the time came.

Why?

Because he can.

@Giant-Gripper you put this so beautifully. Bravo.

You’ve nailed why I basically don’t want to interact with straight F/m fans. You and the previous commenter speaking from years of experience.

Is it really feminist to worship giant women as oversized and dommy sex objects? Some male F/m fans still fail to see women as human beings first, sexual objects second. The only consolation I get from thinking about misogynist shitbirds like this is that they usually scare dates away IRL.

But that’s just my bitterness at experiences of being turned into a GTS object without my specific permission showing. (Giant men are welcome to turn my kink characters into a snack or a bug, the key difference there is I asked for it.)

(Thanks to @miss-lillipants for the inspiration! This is in a world inspired by her posts. I will be updating this every now and then, when I can. It will be in the vein of the gentle tags I gave it.)

Posted in r/MINUS-19
by u/CheckPlease

Well, it finally happened. I got MINUS-19.

I had been lucky enough to have not gotten MINUS-19 for the first year of the pandemic. I’m a manager at a restaurant, and after the government shut us all down for 3 months, my restaurant took the money, paid our staff, and shut down.

After that 3-month lull, when I couldn’t help but read news on social media all day, we came back, and that whole time, I’ve been nervous as hell. I’ve always been a germophobe - which makes for a great kitchen manager, the health department is always impressed by how clean our kitchen is - but this disease, the one that can shrink you - seemingly permanently? This sent my anxiety into overdrive.

Based on the advice of my nurse friend, I bought real N-95’s as soon as I could get them, and I wore them at work. I implemented a strict policy for all employees to wear masks, too, but you know they didn’t cover their noses half the time, and then, there are the bars and restaurants that are operating like nothing changed that are all around us, that they all spend their off hours at.

How could we all avoid it, even with us all masked? We were surrounded by a crowded room of customers who couldn’t mask while visiting. You can’t eat, or drink, or pretend like it’s 2 years ago before the pandemic, while wearing a mask.

So everyone has gotten sick since we re-opened.

Employees got it. Customers got it. Suppliers got it. Most just shrunk for a day, but some were out shrunk for weeks. One of the customers still has it - she’s still just four inches tall after 8 months. I only know because her husband told the bartender last week. He was crying over his beer about it, and he’s not normally an emotional guy.

The vaccine coming out last month should have put my mind at ease. But there was such a small supply, and it was only for old people. I should have lied about having immune deficiency just to get the jab on the first day. I finally got it last week.
It takes 2 weeks for the vaccine to kick in. And guess what, I just got sick this week. 5 days after I was inoculated.

I felt groggy, first. Then I felt sweaty. I had stomach cramps, and I got home, and when I noticed my sense of smell was gone, I panicked. My husband, god bless him, assumed the worst, and immediately drove our two cats to his sister’s house.

When he got back, he had Nyquil for me, and was wearing an N-95 mask. He asked what sort of Shrunk Shelter I wanted. I said, “None”. He laughed, and hugged me. He said that we should put it together as a couple, before I couldn’t help him with the project anymore. I didn’t get what he meant at first, but he just looked at me. I already had the brain fog.

“I mean, before you’re too small to snap together the shelter kit, honey.”

Well, fuck.

He drove to the store and got the Log Cabin. We set up the plumbing with my tap water, just because I’m used to it. He put in a part of a cinnamon stick as an air freshener, and he cut up a small piece of one of his shirts as a blanket, because I always tell him I like his natural scent. I wanted to kiss him as a sort of goodbye, but he kept his mask on the whole time.

That was last night.

He set me and the Shrunken Shelter up in the guest bedroom, and I took some nyquil. I slept on the bed, on our bright white sheets, wearing my black chamois - so I could be easier to see, if I shrank.

And shrink, I did.

This morning was hell. I don’t know how to put it all into words other than to say this has been my nightmare for the past year. And I’m finally living in it.

I know I am so, so, so, SO lucky to have the husband that I do, who luckily works from home so he can look after me a bit. I know we are lucky to have money for a Shrunken Shelter, and for a guest bedroom to isolate in, which just makes all of the logistics so much simpler. But I’m looking around at this tiny log cabin’s walls, which I clearly remember used to fit in my hands last night, and I’m typing this on that dumb Android Microtablet they come with, with its crappy touch screen keyboard, and I want to scream until my throat is sore, that this virus is absolute shit.

Why did I have to be born into a new plague? I know we all are, but god damn it, I’m still mad about it.

I need this to be a short infection. I don’t know how I could handle it if I was the height of a chicken’s egg for the rest of my life.

I know this was a long rant. But, folks, what are your coping mechanisms? Is it wrong for me to just drink vodka all day? That’s all I want to do. Just numb myself out, whenever I’m not coughing.

Do you actually like any of the games on this stupid Microtablet? I used to play The Sims as a kid, and now I feel like I AM one. The little diamond over my head is bright red. I am NOT happy.

@i-am-insane the giant body parts thing seems to be part of the inflation kink. It’s an overlap with or a sub-genre of size kink. It’s never done anything for me, I find the weird proportions distracting and absurd.

@Nyx yeah whenever I use a celebrity in a fantasy or story, it’s a character BASED ON that celeb.

It would feel confusing to actually put the celeb in there. Leave them alone, they just want to be an actor / musician / TV star , whatever.

But this new character? Who looks and talks just like the TV persona of a celeb - but with a different name and a different background that somehow resulted in them turning into a giant? And a specific personality that I made up (because their IRL personality is unknown to me, a stranger?) That’s the stuff.

@maladaptivetiny
For falling asleep, I often fantasize about a giant man comforting me, or carrying me in his chest pocket. The feeling of protection and affection puts me right to sleep.

For when I’m walking around the city, or working in my company’s skyscraper, my go-to fantasy is actually also gentle. This same giant is just hanging out and looking at the city with fascination. He phases through reality at will, luckily, as if he was solid he’d wreck everything, because he’s like 500-1700 feet tall.

It’s the same character for both of these situations. I basically have a giant imaginary friend. He is witty and kind.

I started picturing him as an adult, during my long commutes, and he’s stuck with me for a little more than a decade now, since I find him mentally so useful.

I refuse to give him a name, tell you his fixed physical traits, or put him in a story, because that would sort of take him away from this perfect platonic space in my mind, and convert him into a flawed fictional character for others’ enjoyment. I’ll never chain him down like that. But I invite others to conjure their own freely. Tulpas like him are very helpful!

@foreverlurk
I’m sorry to hear about your depression, and this longing feeling. I occasionally have that sort of longing, especially when I’m just waking up from a good dream.

I’m very glad to hear that you’re getting therapy. So many people don’t even try that, and it can really help with depression a lot. I hope it helps you.

Speaking from experience, when I’ve mentioned this kink to therapists, They were totally nonplussed. The counselors I were seeing were not Freudian. They didn’t really want to dig into it more than I wanted to bring it up. They didn’t attribute meaning to it that I didn’t bring with me.

I forget where you live. I’ve heard that therapy in Europe can still be pretty Freudian, but that’s not so common in the USA, where counselors and therapists are more likely to use cognitive behavioral therapy than Freudian analysis to treat depression.

I’m bringing up Freud because I think that framework would have a field day with this kink. I disagree with him on pretty much everything. The fact that therapy has been moving away from him for the past 50 years is a good thing, for those of us with powerful imaginations, and unusual sexual tastes. He attributed meaning to every little detail, especially sex. He had no science to back up his frameworks, and they don’t really hold up to modern research.

Also.

If you’re finding that this kink is too troubling, you can put it down and walk away for as long as you want. It will still be here for you if you ever want to pick it up again, after a period of time of you focusing on your mental health.

Good luck on your journey!

@wildxpixie
This reminds me. I have a friend who studies birds for a living as an ecologist.

He explained to me how they set up stationary nets to catch song birds. They’re just light colored nets on poles, set across pieces of land where the birds are common. The nets are about 20 feet wide and 6 feet tall.

The scientists are trained on specific ways to hold the birds gently, since they’re so fragile. They measure their weight, and they photograph them sometimes.

Then they let them go.

They know it stresses the animals out. So they only do it rarely. And they try to do it as quickly as possible.

The birds don’t really see the nets as they’re flying quickly, since they’re thin white string against a light sky.

I’m imagining for the equivalent to catch humans, there could be like a transdimensional net that we can’t see. Or maybe a fairy is caught in one of these birds nets.

Just some details for anyone who is inspired by this type of character.

@Olo wonders if I could learn enough about web hosting to take over…

@Olo well damn, now I have a reason to make an account on Bluesky…

@maladaptivetiny ooh! This is a real treat! I love this scenario.

@Olo I don’t like reality TV. But I would love this show!

@Olo Doubly perfect if you have a crush on the lead singer of that band.

I don’t think that ethically, it’s cheating.

In a practical sense though, I feel like it could be corrosive to the relationship, if you’re not careful about it. This is one of the many reasons I don’t roleplay. If there is time I could be spending with my monogamous husband, I’d rather be spending it with him than in a RP session with someone. RP can be a huge time suck compared to other ways of engaging like forums, browsing SizeTwitter, stories, and even Discord.

If there was something keeping my husband and I apart, like if we worked opposite hours or lived far away from each other. The practical problems of the time suck would go away, and RP might cause way fewer problems for a monogamous relationship.

It’s possible that in my single days, I once hooked up with a very tall guy largely because of his size. We met at a music festival so we also had that and art-making in common. But the physical attraction seemed to be more long-lasting on my side than on his, I can tell when I’m not genuinely wanted. So, I didn’t try to force it to last too long.

I mentioned loving his size to him the first night, and he responded coldly. I guess he wasn’t happy with his own body for some reason, I don’t know why.

He was more than a foot taller than I, he dwarfed me in the bedroom. His frame was like hairy steelwork.

His was the face and body I imagined on skyscraper-tall giants in my fantasies for years. Still is sometimes.

@BigCuddlyGiant

this is so sweet!

Fiction idea:
What if the myths of the little people in Ireland comes from a local cursed cave spring, that shrinks anyone who drinks it for a year and a day? I picture him being a local who knows the well stories, while she was a curious tourist out spelunking. Luckily, they seem to be hitting it off.

@skysayl absolutely right there with you.

@foreverlurk I’ve luckily only had sleep paralysis a handful of times, when I was small. I had new age parents who taught me the basics of lucid dreaming as a reaction, and I’ve been pretty good at escaping intense nightmares ever since, including those very intense sleep paralysis ones.
I wish dreams really were magical - because I would completely kick ass in a “Nightmare on Elm Street - Dream Warriors” scenario.