Best posts made by tiny-ivy

Look for a kind man who can help me out. Try to figure out how to get to a chest level surface like a table to try to get their attention without getting stepped on! And go for one who looks like he has kind eyes, if I can see one.

Ooh! You missed two of my childhood favorites!

Lauryn Hill - “Everything is Everything-” Manhattan is beautifully transformed into a giant record, and giant, male-looking, hands come down to occasionally scratch the record.

Crash Test Dummies - “Keep a Lid on Things” - I think the action here, of a tiny man looking for a battery for his normal-sized-man suit, was likely inspired by Men in Black’s tiny head-piloting Arquilians. That movie came out a little more than a year before this video did.
The close-up macro-style shots of the lead singer’s big human suit are very attractive to me.

Charming, goth socialite and CEO David Pine invites the smart and curious non-binary journalist Alex Jacinto to his office for an exclusive interview on his advanced technology company’s latest physics breakthrough. Alex has gone up against some strong personalities in their reporting career, but this one is definitely the most dangerous, and the most dominating.

Since Alex is non-binary you can imagine them however you like. Personally, I see them as AFAB, but the story would also work if you see them as AMAB or intersex. This is a bit of an experiment in writing this way. David Pine is AMAB and cisgender.

TAGS for mobile users: non-con, torture, tiny, story, stink, shrunken woman, ownership, piss, non-binary, giant, entrapment, discipline, cock

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PART 1 of X

Pine Industries’ global headquarters are on the top floor of a 40-story skyscraper in the financial district that was built in the 1960’s. From a distance, it looks like a gleaming, stark, black glass block. I enter the rotating doors, and, after checking in with security, I am escorted to the company’s executive suite by a member of David Pine’s private security detail.

Mr. Pine takes his security and his privacy more seriously than anyone else I have interviewed, and I have spoken to several millionaires and US senators. He is known to be eccentric. I try to maintain an emotional distance from the subjects of my news articles, but I have to admit that I am a little excited to meet him after our brief phone call the previous week. He had a charming demeanor on the phone - befitting a man with a reputation as both a brilliant physicist, and a personable socialite.

The security guard and I leave the elevator, and we enter a shiny upper lobby, with clear glass windows overlooking the city skyline to the left and right, and a black marble wall directly about in front of us.

Unlike most office building floors, there is just one visible door on this whole floor, in the stark center of the floorplan, directly across from the elevator bank. It says “David Pine”.

The security guard presses the intercom button on the door.

“Alex Jacinto is here to see you now,” he says into the speaker.

The speaker buzzes loudly, and the electronic door swings open.

“Go ahead,” the guard says, and gets back on the elevator.

The electronic sliding door is just wide enough for one person. It’s currently open just for me. I feel a little cautious about being so isolated with an interview subject, but I step through the door, and it gently slides closed behind me. I didn’t become a journalist to be afraid of everything. This was going to be a great cover story.

Through the door, the room is completely different. It looks like a 19th century library, with mahogany floors covered in lush rugs, and several rows of book cases filled with both antique and modern books. David is at his computer, double monitors casting a blueish glow on his face, focusing intently on something. He glances over at me, seemingly remembers that I exist, and stands up, gesturing to me to come closer.

“Come here, come here. Don’t worry about my working, I am just messing around with something, I was expecting you here,” he says, and walks towards me for a handshake.

When he stands up, I notice that he’s at least 6’4’', and in good shape. I had heard that he’s a tennis player as a hobby, and his build fits that. He’s wearing a black button up business casual shirt, tight black jeans with an intricate, deep red pattern in their fabric, and Doc Martens boots, and has several piercings on both of his ears, and one on his nose. His hair is partially shaved, and partially long and black. This look would fit in well at a Goth club, but it looks great on him here, too.

“I’m so psyched to meet you in person,” he says. As he shakes my hand, I notice several detailed silver rings, some with large, deep-colored gems. I notice a thick silver chain behind his shirt, though I can’t see the pendant.

“I’m so glad to meet you, as well, Mr. Pine,” I say, and he gestures to a coffee table in the corner of the expansive office.

“Let’s chat over some tea?”

He makes me some lovely green tea, and we sit down for the interview. I get out my digital voice recorder, and I also take out my laptop.

“I will admit right now, I am a little starstruck to meet you, Alex. I was a huge fan of your book on String Theory. You really made the subject accessible to the average reader,” he said.

“Thank you, though I know that would be boring to a physics PhD like yourself.”

“Nonsense. Engaging, but accurate, science writing is far from easy to write. I’ll admit I’ve tried my hand, and failed at it. Educating the public, especially the large portion without college degrees, is a worthwhile cause. And you’re so good at it- your series on Climate Change for USA Today last year really deserved that Pulitzer Prize.”

I blushed. He had actually done his research. Usually, I’m the only one who knows anything biographical about the other person in this situation.

“I’m flattered. I really am.”

“You’re funny on Twitter too, Alex,” he said, chuckling. “I’ve been following you on there for years.”

“Really?”

“I really am quite a fan. You’re one of the most talented non-fiction writers  today. And I’m glad you actually have a graduate degree in physics, it clearly improves your understanding of the topic.”

I am a little unnerved that he knows that. He must have read that on my Wikipedia. Or is that on the dust jacket for the String Theory book?

“It must be so exhilarating that you get to write about physics as your topic, there is so much that we’re learning about it right now.”

“Yes, Mr. Pine-”

“Call me David,” he corrected me, and grabbed my free hand, quite unexpectedly.

“David, that is exactly what I am here about. Pine Industries released a mysterious press release about your latest breakthrough in “Sub-Molecular Organization Lattices” last week. The stock price jumped afterwards, but nobody that I’ve spoken to could put that press release into layman’s terms.”

“Yes, the SMOL project,” David says, nodding, putting his tea cup down. “It’s a huge topic to go into with just a text description. Allow me to demonstrate.”

David walks to his desk, and pulls a beautifully carved wooden box out of his desk drawer, about the size of a thick jewelry gift box. He brings it back to the mahogany coffee table and hands it to me.

“Open it.”

The top opens easily, and I stare at what looks like some sort of medical device, surrounded by a form-fitting wood carving, a precisely made carrying case. It is a broad bullet shape, like a tall dome, about an inch in diameter, an inch and a half high. It is  made of an extremely strong, clear plastic mesh. There is a tiny metal latch in the front, with an electronic lock to the side.

“What is this?” I ask.

“One moment. All will be clear once you see the second part.”

He calmly walks to the wall behind me, and swipes his wrist over a foot-wide black glass-like electronic panel. The panel beeps, and then blinks red repeatedly, like a silent alarm. I stare at it.

“Let me take that back from you, I’ll show you the connection between these two things,” he says, grabbing the box and mesh dome from my hands. He steps several feet away, and my eyes follow him. I stare at him, and wait. I know that he can have trouble catching up his thoughts to his mouth sometimes, like many other highly intelligent people I’ve talked to for science stories.

There is a loud electronic whine, and then a THWACK sound comes from the wall panel. A bright-pink electric bolt hits me in my chest. It feels like it burns. I gasp, the wind knocked out of me, and then I stand up. I was not expecting an attack here. He has no reputation like that.

“What the hell was that, DAVID?” I ask him, and stumble towards him. He is not shocked, he planned this.

“That was my new technology. The Sub-Molecular Organization Lattice Reconfigurator. It algorithmically simplifies and Reorganizes matter to more efficient presentations.”

As he says this, I feel extremely weak. I want to pass out. I refuse to. I must stay awake, so I can report on this as soon as I get out of here. I slowly walk towards him.

I’m alone up here. He’s rich and charming, so he’s basically immune to legal consequences, no matter what he wants to do to me. For the first time, I am a little afraid. But I am not nearly as afraid as I am angry.

“How dare you test your stupid device on me, you smug piece of shit,” I yell, while feeling dizzy. The room is spinning. I feel a wind circling around me, like I’m free-falling, but my feet are still solid on the ground.

The room stops spinning for a moment. I look down. I am only two feet from the ground, but I am standing up.

“You fucker! You shrunk me?” I say, aghast.

He steps towards me. I stare up at him, and he’s towering over me. My head only reaches his kneecap. The top of his tall Doc Marten boots reach my waist.

“You’re not even done yet,” he says, his voice now unnaturally loud. He is grinning widely.

The ground rushes towards me again, as I stare up at his hugeness. He seems to get larger and larger and larger, until it is hard to relate to him as a person, and he looks more like a huge, freakishly moving, building to me.

“You are SO adorable,” his amplified-sounding voice says from what seems like half a mile above me. It sounds like an extremely loud concert from across a festival field. He takes an enormous step, and then another, making the ground shake like an earthquake. His right foot stops thankfully a little distance from me. It is the length of four subway cars to me, and about as wide as my apartment’s living room.

“Do you like my new boots?” He asks, and stomps his left boot just a few body lengths from me. I am temporarily deafened by the slap of the thick rubber against the marble floor, and I fall to the floor, shaken and dazed by this show of power. I start to sob. I look up at the boot. Based on how huge his treads and laces are to me, I am about a half of an inch tall.

“Don’t be afraid, Alex. Don’t fret. I’ll keep you safe,” he says, and he steps back, and slowly lowers himself onto his knees and hands, splaying his enormous left index and middle fingers to two sides of me. I am as tall as the length of his fingernails.

“Here, I’ll whisper,” he says, and moves his face to just a few huge inches from me.

I can see every pock mark, every acne scar, and hair follicle. He has a five o’clock shadow, and his nose piercing is tarnished. He is wearing a little bit of now-crusty black eyeliner, probably leftover from last night. His lips are enormous, fleshy structures, that remind me of dead, pink, stretched-out orca whales. I can smell his breath, like a humid sauna air blasting at me again and again. At least his breath was recently refreshed with a mint.

A mint that he ate because he was planning this violation, I realize. What an asshole.

“You dropped something, before,” he says under his breath.

He puts his weight on his knees and leans over me. I wince, as his unfathomable body casts a shadow over my carpeted world. He is stretching over my space to grab something from the table that I was sitting at a few moments ago. He leans back onto his folded legs, and places the item he grabbed a few long inches in front of me.

It is the mesh item that I was perplexed by. The first time I saw it, it had fit easily into my hand, the size of an olive. Now, in front of me on the floor, it was clearly a bullet-shaped cage, just large enough to hold me. From up close, this mesh looked like a soft, transparent, woven plastic, unlike any material I had seen.

“This is a nanomesh cage. It lets air, light, and fluids through, but it keeps the passenger trapped and safe. It’s a proprietary material which we are developing, that prevents crushing or deceleration injuries.”

I look from his oversized face above me to the cage in front of me. I am stock-still, unsure where to move. His gaze is piercing and inescapable, but that cage is too eerie. I don’t want to be close to either of them.

David taps something on his phone, and the cage’s door opens, with an inviting, electronic, “beep”.

“Go ahead, Alex. Get in.”

I start to step towards it. I get a cold feeling on the back of my neck as I get closer to it, like it’s a trap. I stand still, in the middle of my step, breathing heavily, eyes fixed on the cage.

“Come on,” he says, impatiently. “Last chance, before I help you.”

I start to run away - away from the cage, and away from his gaze, towards his left.

I wonder if I’m fast enough, but he just starts to laugh. It’s  deep, and  derisive, and its vibrations shake me to my bones.

His huge hand lands in front of me quickly, with the cage nestled between three of his fingers, like someone holding a precious gem. Something soft but unyielding nudges me from behind towards the cage, stronger than I can resist. Not wanting to get crushed against the cage or the finger  in a sad, tiny accident, I let him shove me into the door. I turn around and see that he was pushing me with a Q-tip, which he puts down to use his smart phone again. The cage beeps again, and its door locks closed behind me.

“There you are. All safe and sound,” he whispers above me. He gently grips the cage between two fingers. He slowly lifts me into the air, but the movement is still fast enough to cause me to lose my balance and fall to the side of the cage. I was expecting the cage’s sides to scrape me as I fell, but it was gentle to the touch. This is a strange new material. It feels like taught, sturdy spandex to the touch, but I can see through it like slightly warped glass. I wonder if the millions of dollars that his company spent on researching a transparent, breathable, soft, yet strong plastic composite was really just for this CEO’s personal shrunken-journalist cage.

I’ve been reduced to the size of a peanut M&M, and I am still thinking like a journalist, chasing the five w’s they taught us in Journalism class 101: Who, What, Where, How, and Why.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m showing you,” he says. He puts the cage into his left palm and walks through a locked black door in the back of his office. Each of his steps reminds me of being on a large ship in the middle of a wind storm, feeling each wave rock the interior of the ship back and forth, again and again. Left to right. Up and down. Again and again.

The room we enter is dimly and warmly lit, and there is a bed in the center, with black satin sheets, and black steel nightstand tables to its left and right. There are three HR Giger art prints framed on the walls. I look again - those are too big to be posters, and on canvas - those aren’t prints, they’re original artworks, worth tens of thousands of dollars from that famous artist. They show half-human, cybernetic creatures penetrating each other’s stuck-open orifices with mechanical organs.

“This is my nap room,” he says. “I need to powernap when we’re in crunch time. I still do crunch time with my whole engineering team, I find its easiest to lead by example.”

He sets my cage down on one of the steel nightstand tables. The thud knocks me to the side of it again, and I fall down. I finally sit, legs folded under me, and I look up at his huge form, in this underlit, goth, corporate bedroom. The full gravity of my situation hits me, now that the movement has stopped, and I see him staring at me, his arms folded, like he’s studying a new piece of artwork that he just bought.

I try to read his expression. Is this temporary? Is he just trying to show off this new SMOLR technology so I’ll write a glowing press release for him about it?

“You’re mine now,” he says. The words crush my hope worse than the initial realization of my size did, since they prove that this isn’t an accident, and that he’s not planning on it being temporary. I start to tremble in fear.

“No! You bastard! You can’t just use me! I’m a human being!” I scream at the top of my lungs.

He puts his hand to his ear, and strains to listen. He can hear me. This room is eerily quiet, being so high in the air above the traffic noise, and on a floor that the elevators only rarely visit.

“Yes, Alex, you are a human being. A smart one, at that, much above average, and a talented writer. That’s why I picked you to write about your experience here, for posterity. Think of it as a first-person memoir, as a sort of biography of me. You’ll be able to write from a unique perspective,” he says gently, “right here,” he says, and quickly gestures towards his crotch.

I stop breathing for a moment as I see his hand doing this motion. I look up at his face, so high above me, and he has a lecherous expression, amplified in its fearfulness by its over-sized dimensions. My blood runs cold.

I can do nothing but bang on the sides of my cage and shout in rage as he unzips his tight black and red jeans’ fly and moves his pants down to his knees. The sound of the yards of thick denim dropping is like that of a ship’s canvas sails falling down all at once. His sizable package looks like a dangerous piece of machinery tucked behind a tight pair of dark red and black boxer briefs. They have a repeating design of a red cobra on them.

If this was a first date with someone more my size, I would make fun of that underwear’s cheesy print, and ask him if he picked them out just for me tonight. The joke dies behind my lips, in this case.

He slides his boxer briefs down, and his huge dick comes springing out of them. He already had gotten an erection from what he had done to me so far.

There goes that “w”: “Why”. He wants to use me for his sexual perversion. I feel dirtier just imagining how he plans on doing that with me, given the size difference. If he earnestly tried to shove that airplane-fuselage-sized cock into me, I’d become red paste. I gasp at the thought.

“What do you want?” I shout.

He adjusts some device attached to his cock, and it beeps and lights up. A moment later, my cage beeps and lights up as well.

Hell’s Bluetooth.

He grabs my cage and brings me closer to his enormous boner. As the distance narrows, my heart pumps faster, and I can hear a rushing sound of a panic attack in my ears. I can smell his crotch’s scent - a mix of herbal scented soap, and the inevitable crotch sweat that still formed between his morning shower and our afternoon meeting. I also smell a slight scent of coffee, and I realize with disgust that that must be urine leftover from a recent coffee-scented piss. Something so subtle that I wouldn’t have noticed it if his dick was normal sized.

He places my cage next to the cock ring, and the cage and the ring both beep. I hear a clicking sound of machinery from the back of my cage, and the two are now attached.

I am now trapped in a cage attached directly to his cock shaft. I feel his encompassing body heat warming me all over, and the smell, from next to it, is overpowering my nose. I feel the vibration of his heartbeat. My back is to his dick, leaving me free to look around.

“This is your new home, Alex,” I hear him say. I can now fully feel the vibrations of his voice as it resonates throughout the organic structure of his whole body.

He is staring at me and grinning.

“See you later,” he says casually, as he reaches down to pull his underwear back up over his erection.

“NO!” I scream, and instinctually reach up, towards his face, pleading, but his expression does not change from its sadistic grin. The last thing I see in full light is that smirk, before the red stretchy fabric plunges my view into darkness. The fabric crushes his dick, and threatens to crush me, but the cage stays sturdy and soft, protecting me.

I wonder how long it will be until I see any light again, and I pass out from exhaustion. I don’t regain consciousness until several hours later.

@bigcuddlygiant This is awesome!

@olo

“God damn it.”
Puts q tip coated in frosting down, steps back from the construction site, sighs.
“I was really proud of it this year, too. I made it all mid-century-modern and all. But, I’d rather not tempt fate… or that giant jerk…'”
Mutters, looks for less tasty shelter

@Olo ooh thanks for sharing this! This looks great from a sizey perspective and other reasons, too - I love Boots Riley. I thought “Sorry To Bother You” was a bizarre and brilliant story.

Synopsis:
Arturo is a manager at a Wendy’s. He needs a hobby, with how stressful customer service can be. (Especially with the way certain types of customers act.) So, he took up making magic curses in his free time.

Tags, for mobile users who can’t see the tag menu:
vore, torture, tiny, snuff, shrunken woman, shrinking, non-con, handheld, giant, entrapment

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            Arturo looked at the line of customers in front of him, and his heart sank. The line looked like it would never end. It even reached to the door. The lunch rush is why he drinks at night.
            “How can I help you?” he said, again and again. The customers told him what they wanted. He punched the orders into the register. He took their payment and he made change. Again and again.
            Office worker: Spicy chicken sandwich. Construction worker: Pretzel bun burger meal #3. College student: #7, hold the mayo. Retail worker, wearing a uniform from the Home Depot down the road: Strawberry pecan salad.
            The masses of customers blurred together in his minds’ eye. Arturo didn’t have the mental space to even tell one apart from another, and he didn’t care. He focused on the performance of the busy fry cooks and food preparers behind him, and the line of orders neatly coming into and out of the kitchen. He wasn’t just a cashier, he was the shift manager, so it was his responsibility to make sure everything ran smoothly.
            Arturo started to see the stream of customers and orders fall into place on the register screen and in his minds’ eye. He could handle this. He was on top of things.
            Right as he thought this, she walked up to his register.
            She was a middle aged, slightly chubby woman with a blonde haircut that almost covered her forehead, but was buzzed in the back. She was wearing high-waisted jeans and a frilly pink blouse, with a matching pink crystal earring and necklace set. She had a pair of Oakley sunglasses on, even indoors. She smelled like essential oils, even from several feet away at the cash register. She already had a sour look on her face before she started saying the order.
            “Hello there, sir. Can I please get a #6, medium, with a diet Dr. Pepper. And could you sub a side salad for the fries? I know it’s extra, don’t you start that with me.”
            “All right,” Arturo said, carefully typing her order in. He could already tell that she was itching to complain about anything he did even slightly wrong, so he made sure to enter everything exactly as she said. He repeated it back to her to confirm, something he didn’t do with most customers.
            “Yes, that’s right, hon. Thank you,” she said, her tone of voice dripping with false sweetness.
            When she left to the side to wait for her order, Arturo breathed a sigh of relief. So far, so good. He got back to the rest of the still-long line. He could see the end of it now. It ended five feet from the front of the door.
            Someone dressed like a lawyer, baked potato with bacon. A pair of cops, a pair of #5’s with cokes. A little kid and their doctor parent, a chicken finger kid’s meal, and a Caesar salad, diet sweet tea.
            A few minutes passed, and then a food preparer from the back put the problem woman’s order onto the pickup counter. To be sure everything was right, Arturo double checked the ticket, before calling out her order number.
            “136?” he called.
            She didn’t respond. She didn’t seem to have the receipt in her hand. She was staring at her phone.
            “Excuse me, ma’am?”
            No response.
            “Excuse me, ma’am,” he tried getting her attention again. “Order with #6 medium, Diet Dr. Pepper, Salad subbed for fries?”
            She looked up from her phone, and quickly grabbed the paper bag. She opened it up, and started dissecting the bacon ranch chicken sandwich, blocking the way for other customers to get to their ready orders.
            “Excuse me? Can I speak to the manager?” she said.
            “How can I help you?” Arturo replied.
            “No, the manager,” she responded. “There’s a problem with my order, and I need whoever is in charge of this location to fix it, and to educate whoever is responsible.”
            Arturo’s face flushed. Who does she think she is? The lady of a manor talking down to her butler?
            “Ma’am, I am the manager -”
            “Don’t MA’AM me!” she yelled now, aghast. “Your disrespectful attitude right there has to face consequences. I will call corporate and report you, boy.”
            “Boy”? Did she really call him the word that racist white people use against black people when they are afraid of being caught on video saying the “n” word? Only one of Arturo’s four grandparents was black, two were Honduran, one was white, but did she really care about such details? He didn’t look white, so he was caught in her stream of slightly racist verbal venom.
            Arturo breathed out. Irate customers like this are part of the job. It is his job to keep his cool.
            “What seems to be the specific problem, miss?” Arturo said, forcing calm into his voice. Boiling inside.
            “I specifically asked for no ranch on the sandwich. And it’s covered in ranch,” she complained.
            Arturo rewound the action in his head. This was not true. She mentioned no substitutions or requests other than the salad when she ordered.
            “I’m so sorry for that mistake. Allow me to get you a new sandwich,” he said, and took the old one from her hand. He threw it away, and went to the sandwich assembly area, quickly grabbing a new base.
            “THANK you,” she said, her tone of voice dripping poison.
            “Now, I don’t tip, but here’s a free lesson, kid,” she continued, very loudly.
            Arturo was 28.
            “Dumb mistakes like this are why you’ll be stuck in a dump like this, frying chicken and baking potatoes, for the rest of your life. If you don’t learn to fix your listening problem, and your awful attitude towards me, you’ll wish that I got you fired from here. Because I can do that. I’ve done it before. I just have to call corporate and tell them what happened here.”
            Arturo was originally planning on just making a new bacon ranch chicken sandwich, (hold the ranch) for her, and moving on, but, that latest tirade sent a flash of anger straight through his body. It reminded him of the curse potion that he kept in his pocket. The one that he made on a full moon a few weeks ago.
            As Arturo sprinkled the thin, clear liquid onto the new chicken sandwich, he mumbled the curse that goes with casting the spell. He wrapped the piping hot sandwich in foiled paper and handed it back to the problem woman.
            “Here you go,” he offered to her, with his best customer service grin on his face.
            “Thank you,” she replied curtly, and checked the sandwich for the dreaded ranch dressing again. “This will do. Try harder next time,” she was compelled to add.
            Even though the line was still long, Arturo spent a precious half-minute watching her, to keep track of where she was going. She walked across the street to a small park and sat down at a bench. Arturo noted the exact bench.
            Thanks to his coworkers picking up the slack after one got back from their break, the remaining line only took another 15 minutes to get through.
            “I’m going to take my lunch now, Grace. Can you cover me a little early?”
            “Of course,” his youngest and most capable employee responded.
            Arturo washed his hands, tapped his code into the timecard system for a lunch break, and left through the employee exit in the back. He walked past the dumpsters and grease trap, and made his way to the front of the store’s parking lot. He couldn’t wait to see what was waiting for him at the park across the street. He jaywalked, and jogged to the back of the bench that he had seen the problem woman sit down at.
            He slowed his pace, and looked carefully at each place he put down his greaseproof Doc Marten workboots. He didn’t want to crush her like a bug under his shoes, unexpectedly.
            He saw what looked like the remnants of a strange disappearance on the bench. There was a frilly pink blouse lumped on top of jeans, and a purse and smartphone sprawled to the left and right. A pink crystal earring set and necklace were neatly placed on top of the blouse.Behind the purse, there was a crumpled bag from the fast food restaurant that Arturo managed. There were empty leather wedge heels beneath the bench, standing empty.
            He stepped closer, and a subtle spark of movement caught his eye. It was the problem customer, now a tiny woman, just two inches tall, waving her arms and shouting for help, jumping up and down on the top layer of the blouse. She had shrunk out of her clothing - she was stark naked.
            Once she noticed that his gaze was on her, she stopped shouting, and made shade with her hand as she looked up at him. His body was backlit by the sun, so she couldn’t see his face at first. But she could smell the familiar grease of the restaurant that made the meal she was just eating a few moments ago.
            Arturo shifted slightly, and his frame cast a shadow that surrounded her body. She could see him clearly. Once she recognized his face and uniform, she stood frozen, terrified. After a moment, she shouted, meekly.
            “Listen-”
            Her voice sounded like a tiny squeak to him. He slowly bent down to get closer, and smoothly turned his ear towards her. She could smell his braided hair’s moisturizing product from this close. His ear was taller than her.
            “I’m sorry about our disagreements before. Please, young man, can you help me find a doctor to fix this?”
            Arturo said nothing. He turned his head back towards her, he smiled his best customer service smile, and with the speed and precision of a snake bite, his hand plucked her off of the clothing pile. He brought her to his eyes and took in the sight of her for a moment, chuckling slightly.
            She looked into his dark brown eyes, and saw nothing but malice in his expression. She felt dizzy from the momentum of being moved around so quickly. He enjoyed the feeling of her nude little peach-colored body, which instinctively grasped onto his brown thumb like a huge roller coaster safety bar, as his index and middle fingers supported her in the back. He could feel each of her tiny squirms against the sensitive flesh of his fingertips.
            In one smooth motion, Arturo placed her in his white, button-up, manager uniform shirt’s embroidered chest pocket. The fast food company’s logo decorated the front of the square of fabric, and it now looked slightly lumpy.
            “Now, stay hidden. Pop your head out of there, and I drop you into the deep fryer,” Arturo said, and felt a rush of excitement course throughout his body.
            The tiny woman could feel his heartbeat’s fast rhythm, as she tried to adjust to her cloth prison. She could get somewhat comfortable if she leaned against the bottom front of the pocket, but his enormous body’s heat was overwhelming on this summer day, and all she could see from her vantage point, through the straight, starched fabric at the top of the pocket, was the bottom of his chin, and sometimes, his nostrils.
            She breathed deep, trying to calm a panic attack, and noticed with disgust that his shirt smelled like a combination of fabric softener, and the permeating stink of fryer grease.
            Arturo gathered her old, normal-sized clothing, and shoved it into his backpack. It barely fit on top of his other things. He took her phone, smashed it underneath his boots, and threw it away in a park trash can. He put her wallet into his bag, wanting to not leave any evidence of her identity, and dropped the rest of her purse into a drainage ditch. He walked back across the street, through the parking lot, past the dumpster and grease trap, and back into the restaurant.
            He was grinning like he had just had an amazing first date.
            “What’s going on, Arturo?” his coworker Jesse said, smirking.
            “What?”
            “That grin on your face, bro. You got a nice pic from some new girl on your lunch break?” he held out a “congratulations” high five, teasing him on his lack of prowess.
            Arturo laughed, and met the high five. He followed it up with a brief secret handshake and smirked back.
            “Nah, I did meet this cute little chica in the park, though. Think we might be able to get real close, after my shift.”
            “Ooh woow, boss bro getting laid tonight! Ha!” Jesse laughed, sure that Arturo was just making this up.
            “Yeah, yeah. Back to the fryer, Jesse,” Arturo said, and took his place back at the register.
            “Sir, yes sir,” Jesse responded, clearly stoned out of his gourd.
            Throughout this whole conversation, the tiny woman felt like she was going to go deaf from how loud Arturo and the giant Jesse were to her miniscule ears. Every time he spoke, the chest she was resting on resonated like the loudest jet engine. She covered her ears, until they began ringing. She tried to think of how to escape, but her thoughts were clouded by her suffering. This was already unbearable. She let out a tiny whimper.
            Arturo’s shift lasted for another 10 hours. He went from the cash register line, where the tiny woman was deafened by his constant, repetitive talking, to supervising the workers in the kitchen during the dinner rush. He shouted directions at his employees from across the kitchen, and the tiny woman’s ears would ring. Arturo even got up to the grill and frying stations himself for several periods.
            The heat from the cooking elements emanated to Arturo’s chest, and combined with his body heat, it made the tiny woman in his shirt pocket drift in and out of consciousness. She felt like she was slowly roasting in a very loud oven. Sometimes, everything would go tunnel-like, and then black. And then he’d shout again, and she would startle awake, resentful of the sound again.
            This entire time, Arturo was walking with a light step, and laughing at more of his young employees’ dirty jokes than normal. He was giddy, just from how thrilled he was at knowing that he had this fucked up little secret in his shirt pocket.
            She was right on top of his left pectoral, the whole time he was working, without anybody suspecting a thing. When he’d move in certain ways, he’d feel the slight tug on his chest from the weight in his pocket, and he’d be again reminded of her: helpless, trapped, completely at his mercy.
            It did feel like an evil sort of first date, but it was with someone who had such haughty contempt for him when they met earlier in the day.
            After the dinner customers trickled out, it was Arturo’s job to close up the shop. A few employees stayed for about an hour, closing up the kitchen for the night, throwing away unused food, turning off the griddles and fryers, wiping all the metal surfaces with bleach-soaked rags. Arturo locked shut the drive through window and the front entrance doors, and flipped on the neon “closed” sign over the driveway. He turned out all of the lights, leaving only a couple of emergency fire safety bulbs on.
            He counted the register and filled out his daily digital report, and emailed it into his regional manager.
            With all the customers and other employees gone, the tiny woman’s captor had finally stopped talking. She was lulled to sleep by his heartbeat, and by his repetitive, gentle motions as he finished his computer work and cleaned a few of the surfaces in the front of the store. He always did one last pass with the cleaning rag in the dining room after he had the place all to himself.
            He put the cloth away, and washed his hands, again. He picked up an extra large soda cup from next to the soda machine and reached into his chest pocket.
            The tiny woman was woken from a nightmare by the feeling of a gigantic pair of fingers gripping her gently, and before she knew she was even awake, she had been deposited at the bottom of the wax-lined paper cup.
            She looked at the round, bright white sides of this new trap. Reality set in, and she cried out in anguish.
            “This is really happening,” she yelled, and sat down at the edge of the cup. Her legs reached the center of the cup when she sat at the edge, but the top was impossibly far away for her to climb to. As she looked at this, she saw that enormous brown face looking down at her. His expression was hard to read - she couldn’t tell if he was excited or angry.
            “Please. Let me go. Please, make me big again.”
            “So you can treat me and everyone else who works at a job like mine like garbage, again?” Arturo said.
            “I’ve learned my lesson, sir,” she shouted.
            “Maybe I should throw you in the garbage. You might survive in there, eating unwanted and rotten food, until the commercial trash truck comes 3 days from now, and crushes the entire block. If you’re clever enough, you might even escape the slippery-walled dumpster. If you made it down to the ground from there, you could then be eaten by the crows that live in the parking lot. I saw one eat a rat, once.”
            “What do you want?” she cried out.
            “I want one less entitled, stuck up, sadistic asshole like you in the world,” Arturo said. “You Karens are like time traveling slave masters - trying to treat everyone who works a worse job than yours like your personal servants. It’s the modern world, chica, we’re all in a broken, late capitalist system, and my job has nothing to do with my intelligence, my skill, or my worth as a human being. It’s just fucking economics. Your hateful mindset doesn’t fit in anymore. Read the damn room.”
            “Here, your favorite,” he added, as he moved the cup to the spout of the machine. He tapped a button, and a jet of fizzy brown liquid fell into the cup, with industrial speed. It knocked the tiny woman down, and it quickly became deeper than her reduced height. She held her breath, and tried to swim towards the ever-raising surface, but the current from the jet was too strong. It was like swimming against a fire-hose the size of a river rapid. As she struggled under the current, she could taste the familiar flavor of Diet Dr. Pepper.
            Even though she was still under the surface of the giant soda cup, the woman could hear Arturo’s voice vibrate through her skull, as the vibrations of his voice traveled through his chest to his arm, to his hand that held the vertical pool of sticky liquid.
            “There is just one place your backwards mentality CAN fit,” he said.
            She could see some brown-tinted light near the surface of the beverage. Just a bit further to swim.
            Arturo lifted the cup to his mouth, and opened his jaws wide. He opened his throat, the same technique he used to quickly chug full cups of beer at parties. He tilted the cup slightly, and chugged the Diet Dr. Pepper down.
            The liquid became shallower, as the position of her new prison shifted, and the woman now had the sensation of a stream of shallow liquid carrying her towards a warm cave in front of her. She took a breath in the air, and was struck by the horror of being in the fast food manager’s mouth. The room was dimly lit, but she could see the shine of his white teeth above her, and the blackness of the back of his monstrous throat directly in front of her.
            Arturo felt a large object in his mouth, like when you come across an ice cube while chugging soda. He pinned her to the roof of his mouth with his tongue, and tilted the cup back to idle in his hand, only half-empty.
            The woman screamed for mercy. She kicked her legs desperately, and slammed her arms against the sensitive roof of his mouth. She prayed he would change his mind before he did the last, irreversible thing.
            Arturo savored her body’s taste. He could feel every thrash of her tiny limbs trying to save herself. The fact that her body’s strongest motions were so pathetically overpowered by just his tongue filled him with pleasure. Her terrified screams thrilled him.
            “I don’t want to die!” she screamed, as Arturo dropped his tongue down, and tilted the soda cup back one final time. A rush of Diet Dr. Pepper carried the problem customer down his held-open esophagus, all the way down to his waiting stomach.
            Arturo burped. It was a pleasant sensation, since the spicy, effervescent taste of Dr. Pepper bubbles came right back, a result of his stomach shifting around some swallowed carbonation, among other things.

@jitensha I’m the same way. I never play with toilet stuff IRL. I’ve been an avid hand-washer since before COVID.

It’s just a thing for a giant to torture a tiny with to me. A way to humiliate and dominate.

Any giant wanna tear my roof off while my normal-sized boyfriend and I are fucking? I know that the sort of giant who tears a roof off wouldn’t normally be a polite or kind sort, so, just be yourself.

@olo I love this. Everything that’s hot about vore. I love the “training” effect this had on the pet, too.

@giant-me Never change your preferences to try to fit with others’! (I’ve tried that - it just leads to resentment.)
Be your gentle self! There are also many fans of gentle giants - me included.

@olo I’d definitely want to be part of a harem.

I’ve never had much value for either social hierarchy nor romantic jealousy, I’d like us all to be one united group against the giant. Even better, one united bisexual cuddle pile? A sisterhood but with more hugging and maybe kissing, even fucking, if our time with the giant isn’t so traumatic that it makes us dissociate sex from enjoyment.

Even if I failed at rallying the rest of the tiny women together under the banner of feminism and tiny liberation, If I could find at least one other tiny woman who saw things that way, I’d have a best friend / girlfriend and be as happy as a trapped tiny can possibly be.

Even if the giant is generous… Even if the other women are combative. I don’t only want to be seen as a man’s pet forever. Any other type of interaction with another person my size would help me remember my own humanity. They’d be a little piece of the world that is still my size.

Word count: 7192
In Two Parts

This is a M/ff fairy story with macrophile sex in it, or a macrophile sex story with fairies in it. Either way, it was an indulgence to write. Featuring a messy bisexual fairy and an effective human hunter.
CW: There is no vore, just the threat, but there is dubious/non-consent, infidelity, and an eventual death.

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PART 1
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Bluebell woke up shivering, but covered in sweat. This was too early. It was time to go back to sleep. She hugged Lilac closer and tried to return to her dreams.

A spare thought crawled through Bluebell's groggy mind, as she lay on a flipped coin's edge of consciousness. She sighed, and sat up, rubbing her eyes.

She can't just go back to sleep. Not during Hibernation. Unlike a normal night-long sleep, which she could stop and start whenever she felt like it, this three-month-long rest was started and stopped by forces far beyond Bluebell's power. The seasons themselves dictated it.

If she was awake, that meant that it was now spring. The fact that she was waking up meant that the frozen ground around her was thawing. It meant that it was the end of winter, March 21.

Bluebell's goddess patron was coming back to the surface today, magically waking all of the Persephone Fairies with her presence.

Bluebell still felt exhausted, like her sleep was not nearly long enough. Her wife Lilac was still fast asleep on her side, on the other side of the rabbit-fur-covered bed. Bluebell stood up, gingerly stepping around her, trying to let her sleep for longer.

She stretched and bent her limbs, which had gotten stiff in the long rest. She creaked her dragonfly-like wings open, spreading them out across her back. They felt wrong, somehow. She fluttered them. They couldn't vibrate fast enough. She felt the shape of them with her hands, and gasped.

The wings were too small, like they were still forming. It took the full three months for them to grow after they fell off in late December of each year. She had never seen what they were like in between the two landmark days that begin and end her annual rest, so she didn't know how undergrown they were.

Wait. Had her wings stopped growing too early? Or had Bluebell just woken up too early?

She put on her warmest vole-leather leggings and boots, and her down-filled, magpie-feather-accented cloak, and walked through the moss-carpeted tunnel that lead to their front door.

To an observer of the outside of her front door, it looked like a circular hole opened in the root of an oak tree. A four-inch-tall woman dressed in a rustic leather and fur outfit with a feathery cloak stepped out. When she closed the door behind her, the hallway looked like an ordinary tree root again.

She took in her surroundings. This was an uneasy warmth. She remembered an outdoor thermometer in a human's garden that she used to read every day, and thought that this was around 15 degrees Celsius, or 60 Fahrenheit. She saw some small brown mushrooms near her front door, freshly sprouted. She felt the earth beneath her feet, spongy and alive, smelling like early spring.

There was snow on the ground in some places, though it had melted in others. There weren't any leaves in the trees yet, but the tree branches were wet with melting icicles.

This wasn't right.

She glanced directly at the sun for an instant, and put her thumb in front of it. She compared this position to the horizon. It was four pm, and it was warm enough to grow flowers in. Warm enough for mushrooms to sprout today. But the sun was too low to the horizon for it to be March 21 yet.

Based on the sun's position, it was still early February. She had only slept for half of their 3-month hibernation.

"Damn," Bluebell cursed to herself.

She took off her cloak, which was beginning to feel stifling in this unexpected heat, and tested her wings out. She flapped them vigorously, but they couldn't lift her. Trying to vibrate them just tired her out. She folded the useless appendages back onto her back, and put her cloak back on.

"Shit," she cursed to herself deeper now, and put her hand on her chin.

She tried to use her magic. She made the gestures and spoke the words, but nothing happened. Of course, it wouldn't - her magic was a gift from Persephone, and she was still partying with her undead husband Hades in the underworld in early February.

You don't just wake early from hibernation. Persephone's footsteps are what wake you, and she never walks her Spring Path too early - she's a Goddess, with divinely perfect timing.

But something had modified this celestial clock, and now, Bluebell has woken up without the Goddess' seasonal gift of wings, and without the magic she grants her faerie devotees in the warm months.

Unless Bluebell could stuff herself so full of food and wine that she could trigger her hibernation sleep to start again (as they normally do every December 21), she will instead have to be awake in the winter for 45 days, foraging for food in this strangely half-winter, half-spring landscape.

Where could she find a winter's feast in the wilds during this unnatural season, anyway? None of the trees were fruiting, and the small brown mushrooms near her door would only go so far.

"I'm fucked," she said quietly to herself, staring up at the huge, bare-limbed trees around her. She walked a few feet away, looking for something to forage.

"No, hun, we're fucked," Lilac said, as she walked up behind Bluebell, putting her arm around her shoulder. "But we're fucked together."

Bluebell hadn't noticed her come outside. Bluebell grasped Lilac's hand, and turned to her.

Lilac was a sight for tired eyes. Her black, chin-length hair was naked in the air, and hung around her face freely. Her cute button nose was twitching in a way that always reminded Bluebell of a mouse sniffing the air.

"You're up too? Oh, honey. I was hoping to not wake you."

"You didn't wake me. This weather did," Lilac said, gesturing around to the freakishly warm atmosphere surrounding the dripping winter landscape.

"I remember this happening once. Two days early, a few years before I met you. Fir, Wren and I just huddled in our house, drinking some water we found right near the entrance. We didn't want to risk foraging in winter-time, without our magic."

"It's more than two days from spring, this time," Bluebell said.

"I noticed, too. We can't avoid eating that long. We have no choice but to gather what food we can find," Lilac responded.

"And without any prey charms, or sparked arrows…"

"That means no easy hunting. Foraging, then. We should see if any of the holly berries from the bushes above the ridge are still there," Lilac said, pointing at the tall wooded ridge behind Bluebell.

They both looked at the ridge a few dozen feet in front of them, separated from their tree home by a group of oak and sycamore trees, and some undergrowth.

They stared at the top of the ridge. Something looked different than how they remembered it.

"Are the holly trees gone?" Bluebell asked.

"At least the one at the top of the ridge is. There were a few at the other side of the ridge, too," Lilac responded. "Let's see."

Lilac and Bluebell carefully walked toward the top of the ridge, both taking into account every noise, every rustle, and every flash of light that could indicate danger. It was perilous to be just a few inches tall in the forest. There were hundreds of larger things that wanted to eat you.

They reached the top of the ridge and were shocked by what they saw below. Where there had been virgin forest in late December, there was now just a clearing, complete with stumps and matted earth, and plenty of human-made insults to nature. There were still some scraggly pieces of undergrowth on the edges. In the middle of the oversized clearing, stood a manmade structure, silvery-chrome with reflective windows and rubber wheels, standing next to a black pickup truck.

Some human had cleared a patch of pristine mountain forest and put a trailer home on top of it. Woodsmoke wafted out of the chimney, and the lights were all on at once. The whole structure hummed with glowing electricity and artificially created heat. It stood out like an ugly silver pimple on the soggy brown earth.

The fairies stared in horror.

"There are no holly trees here at all," Bluebell lamented.

"The humans left some food out, though," Lilac said, pointing to a patch of dirt near the largest trailer window. Standing on the dirt was a wooden post, intricately carved with Norse-style decorations. Attached to the post, about six feet up, was a wooden arm, with a thick metal hook, holding a chain, which held up a bird feeder made of green metal. The bird feeder looked like a miniature house with a metal roof, clear plastic walls, and a flat metal perch beneath the plastic windows. The perch was overflowing with bird seeds of all types. The fairies stared at the mounds of seeds tucked behind the plastic, and salivated. The dull pain of hunger crawled into both of their stomachs, and they remembered that they hadn't actually eaten in a month and a half. Their instincts screamed at them to break their long fast.

There were a few discarded sunflower seed shells on the ground, and several forgotten specks of millet. But that wasn't enough to last for long, and the fewer foraging trips they took to this cache, the safer.

"I'll climb up to the platform, and fill my whole cloak with seeds. I'll tie it off with the twine into a package. That much should last us for at least a week," Lilac said.

Bluebell remembered what a talented climber Lilac could be. Bluebell had no doubt she could do this on her own.

"I wish you didn't have to. Let's come back at night."

Lilac shook her head no, and spoke gravely.

"By night, all of those seeds might be gone. Birds can get through this in a matter of hours. This must have been filled this morning, and it's already half-empty, in the afternoon."

Bluebell looked at the patterns of use, the bird droppings, and the scattered seed pods. Lilac was right.

"Be careful," Bluebell said, and hid inside a remaining evergreen shrub on the top of the ridge. Lilac stayed outside of the same plant as she put together her tools. She used a length of thin twine to tie her outer cloak into a large, empty satchel.

Lilac was the more adept tracker, and the most skilled crafts-person of their whole fairy circle. Bluebell watched Lilac's impromptu satchel creation with wonder, her worried heart making room in itself for glowing threads of admiration.

Lilac came into the bush. The two kissed passionately for the first time since they woke up, and sparks of delight lit up both of their hearts. They smelled like each other's best days.

"I'll be back in two shakes of a squirrel's tail," Lilac said, and left the bush. She picked up the satchel and snapped it to her chest, and turned around one last time to wave goodbye.

Her back to the bush, she scanned for danger among all of the details of her surroundings. She then put her ears to the ground, closing her eyes. There was no sign of large animals nearby. She stood up, and went down the grass-and-tree-stump-covered hill.

The bird feeder was in the middle of a cleared patch of dirt. Lilac ran towards it with ease, before she climbed up the intricately carved wooden beam. She walked down the two-inch-thick wooden arm that held up the seed cache like it was an easy pathway in her thick, gray mouse-leather boots, and waved a brief greeting towards the bush that Bluebell was hiding in, before climbing down the metal chain and onto the bird feeder platform.

Lilac scooped bird seed into the makeshift satchel, over-stuffing it like a chipmunk filling its cheeks. She fastened it securely to her back and climbed back up the short chain to the wooden arm, and started walking back to the carved support beam. A quarter of the way back to the beam, she froze in her tracks.

She knelt down to put her more sensitive palms to the wooden rod, to feel the vibrations more clearly. This was no false alarm. A human was active inside the trailer.

A light switched on, illuminating the small window on the top of the back door with sodium-yellow. A human's head looked out of it for a moment, before turning down, to finish putting on his boots. The steel door swung open on a creaking hinge, and the man who had put this trailer in the middle of this pristine forest walked toward the bird feeder.

The human was a middle-aged man dressed in hunting gear, with a full, dark beard specked with grey, a strong nose, and piercing brown eyes. He was thick and muscular-looking, like someone who ate a lot of venison, and the two main textures in his winter wardrobe were dark blue canvas and green camo waterproof nylon. His hiking boots and gloves were black leather.

Lilac didn't get a good look at man, but she felt the vibrations from his huge footsteps travel through the ground and into the wooden structure she was on. She sprinted to the vertical support rod, and shimmied to the side of it furthest from him. The fairy desperately climbed down to the ground, cursing her useless, half-grown wings.

Lilac felt the swollen satchel tied to her back pull her away from the carved rod. She reached her hands and arms out uselessly as she was yanked further and further away, before an enormous hand turned her towards a giant face.

"I wasn't expecting to attract something as beautiful as you with that feeder," the hunter said, wonder thick in his voice.

Lilac tried to get out of the man's grip. She pressed a latch on her chest and the swollen seed-satchel that he was holding her by disconnected from her. She fell swiftly toward the ground six feet below.

Certain death from this fall was better than what she had heard humans could get up to with fairies. Better to be a crumpled thing on the ground than a meal.

His left hand easily caught her just a few inches below the beginning of her fall. His gloved grip closed around her tightly. She struggled against the fingers' black leather surface, but she could feel their overpowered strength with his slightest movement, as they held her tight.

With his other hand, he examined the satchel, gently prodding it. Its simple knots burst, the cache of seeds falling into the soft dirt below, sounding like heavy rain. He watched this all with curiosity.

"Trying to steal seeds from the birds?" the hunter asked her, moving his cold gaze to the tiny woman struggling in his grip.

"What are you, little thing?"

Lilac said nothing. Talking got you nowhere with humans. The only thing to do for a fast escape was to fly away, or, if that fails, charm them into forgetting you.

Persephone, help me, Lilac prayed to her Goddess. Just one sleep-and-forget-charm. That's nothing to you. I know you can hear me down there in the underworld.

"Not much of a talker?" the hunter asked.

He took all of her details in. From head to toe, she was no taller than his middle finger. She was wearing a thin, ren-faire-style brown leather outfit with such exquisite details, that it must have been constructed by her tiny hands. She had pale, almost-white skin, and a chin-length bob of straight black hair. Her tiny, beautiful face was horrified.

The hunter loved seeing and feeling this entire little being in just his hand. She was like a woman, almost, but she was so small, so beyond the human scale, that she must have been some sort of undiscovered type of non-human animal. He thought about what he could do with her, and remembered. God had given the earth and all its creatures, the whole domain of nature, to Man, to do with it as Man pleased. He didn't even need a hunting permit for something so rare.

She was his now.

He noticed a slight wiff of something unexpected in the air, and brought her to his nose. She smelled like wildflowers, and roses, cinnamon rolls, and petrichor, all mixed into one. A wave of warmth and sunshine went through his nose.

"Wow, that smell," he said, and he breathed out, before he took a second, deeper sniff, filling his lungs completely with her scent.

Memories flooded his mind. Summer vacations and thunderstorms, his first kiss with a classmate wearing cherry lip balm, his first ride on a roller coaster, smelling funnel cake. The gasoline in his first car, the perfume of his ex-wife on their first date, fresh deer blood from the first prize buck that he bagged when he was 17. The overwhelming scent of a woman's pussy, clinging to his beard after oral sex, as he slid his cock deep into the tight flesh.

The hunter was suddenly stiff, and high as a kite.

"You're a drug. Oh my god," he said, and took her inside the trailer.

Bluebell had been inching closer to the entrance this whole time, carefully darting from one piece of cover to the next. By the time he slammed the steel and glass door behind him, she was hiding behind a vaguely egg-shaped propane tank attached to a grill right outside of the back door.

The bastard. Bluebell thought to herself. Taking Lilac like she was some lowly creature. Like she was merely a small human. He doesn't even know what she is, other than enticing. We're Goddess-Blessed beings of the forest. This mortal fuck.

Down the length of the trailer, on the opposite side as the parked truck, there was a firepit. Between the firepit and the trailer was an enormous pile of firewood , as tall as the window next to it. A light turned on in the window. Bluebell climbed the logs as fast as she could, and looked inside, resting her face and open palms against the glowing glass. Without any mystical help from her absent deity, all she could do was watch, as the huge man did whatever he pleased to her captured fairy spouse.

Bluebell's window faced into the bedroom at the end of the trailer. Through a rounded door frame, she watched as the giant man, still at the end of the kitchen, stood up from a crouching position. He was getting an empty glass jar from the bottom cabinet. He had a hammer and a nail in his other hand. Bluebell couldn't see where Lilac had been placed, until, with horror, she realized that what she thought was a branch in the giant man's mouth being casually sucked on was actually Lilac's brown leather boots sticking out. Bluebell wanted to scream, but she didn't dare. Not if she wanted to survive witnessing this horrible spectacle.

Lilac was surrounded by a wet, dark, series of muscles that made up the hunter's mouth. They had complete control of her movements. She tried to go one way, and the tongue countered. She tried to slide backwards, to get the rest of her legs out of the dark and slimy mouth, and his lips just pressed down harder around her legs. The blade-like teeth scraped the edge of her shins, and she shivered in terror at the thought of them biting down. She couldn't decide which was worse - getting crushed to a paste by these teeth, or being swallowed into the inescapable oblivion of his huge stomach while still aware. She preferred neither.

As she struggled against the mouth, the giant hunter kept her tucked between his lips out of convenience, like someone holding a spare nail, as he punctured some holes into the lid of a glass pint storage jar. He had taken off his winter clothes at the door with her there, and it was a convenient enough storage space for now. It also let him continually inhale his new fairy friend's scent, which filled him with excitement and lust. He finished piercing the lid, put the hammer away, and carried the jar into the bedroom. As he walked through the doorway, it felt like he was floating on air. He was careful to remind himself of gravity and his body's placement amongst his furniture.

The hunter put the jar on the bedside table, and grabbed the fairy woman by her tiny boots. As he pulled her out of his mouth, a drip of saliva followed behind. He slurped, a little embarrassed to be drooling like an animal, and a rush of her scent came to his palette. She tasted like fine whiskey, like cognac, like the best new years eve midnight of his life. A thrill flashed through his body like lightning.

Her magic was even more intense when she was tasted. His mind rushed. He thought about eating her, but decided not to, when the logical part of him reminded him groggily that if he kept her alive, he could come back to her for these little tastes again and again, whenever he craved her. The jar trap he just made will be a good enough prison for her, at least for when he was done with her today.

And he knew that he wasn't anywhere close to done yet. His dick had been raging in a tumescent tension since he was still outside, and the intense dose he got from putting her on his tongue had made his lust even stronger. He felt helpless to the feelings her scent was causing in him.

Lilac didn't just feel helpless, she actually was helpless, dangling upside-down like a caught fish from the giant's grasping fingers. She tried to squirm out of them, but there was no use.

The huge right hand placed her into his left palm, her belly up. His fingers started yanking off her tiny boot. She unbuckled it and let it go into his grip, not wanting to get in his way if he were to yank harder. She took her second boot off, unprompted.

"Good, now take it all off," the giant man said. "I need to smell you more."

Lilac peeled off her mouse-leather leggings, carefully bunching them next to her on the raised platform of his hand. She removed her rabbit-fur vest, and then her miniature white silk brassiere, her tiny raindrop-sized breasts jiggling into the open air. She stood up on his bouncy palm, glad to not be held so tightly. She languidly vibrated her wings, stretching their flight muscles out, like someone cracking their knuckles.

The movement caught the hunter's eye.

She tried to fly. Her growth-stunted wings couldn't lift, either.

"You're a fairy?" he asked.

If she could fly, then he had no choice but to hold onto her to prevent escape, the hunter thought. He grabbed her with his vice-like fingers again, and flipped her upside-down, onto her knees. Her tiny, hand-crafted wardrobe fell from his palm to the floor of his bedroom.

She folded her wings to as small as possible, not wanting this monster to be any more interested in her most fragile body part. Cuts heal in days, bruises in weeks. Bones can heal in a matter of months. Her dragonfly-like, gossamer-thin wings only get repaired during her annual winter hibernation.

With her face looking down, she noticed that his cock was hard enough to show an erection clearly through his jeans. She made a disgusted sound. It sounded like a squeak to him.

His dick was proportionally big, even compared to other humans. She was reminded of her boyfriend Fir's substantial fairy-sized cock. He was just five inches tall to her four and a half, but he also had a dark beard and a big dick, like this awful man. His features were craggy, and dramatic, also a little like Fir. Lilac realized that she could have enjoyed an encounter with a being who looked like this - if he was only the right scale.

He lifted her again, gripping her ankles in his right hand, and brought her to his face, to gaze at her remarkable, now nude, form.

She closed her eyes at first, but she couldn't help but notice his expression. He was absolutely stoned out of his gourd, like someone on a gleeful mushroom trip. She remembered a rumor that humans found fairy pheromones intoxicating.

She cursed her own scent. There was no negotiating or tricking a man this outside of reality.

The only escape would be from her own movements. She used all of her flexibility and strength to reach down to her feet, and gripped her calves, trying to pry his giant grip open with her hands. He just held her slightly tighter to compensate.

The sheer difference in strength made her heart sink. She thought about giving up. But she had to escape: his titanic scale, and his mental weakness to her scent, just made this all wrong. She reminded herself: He wasn't a potential lover, he was nothing like Fir - he was a monster, who, if she didn't get out in time, would use her however he wanted to fulfill his drugged-up desires.

He placed the tiny naked woman back in his mouth, her face pointed out this time, her legs firmly on his tongue, beneath his palette. Her head and shoulders remained on the outside of his tensed lips, which held her there again for the convenience as he needed his hands to undress.

Lilac tried to get her hands free so that she could push against the lips, to jump down, but he grazed her prone body with the tips of his teeth again, and she stopped squirming. She prayed that he didn't want to swallow, as she stared down, watching his oversized limbs take off his thickly woven, dark blue canvas pants. The hunter's gargantuan cock now poked out of his opened camo boxers, which he slid off, and kicked away with his feet. The dick bobbed steadily in the open now, naked, stiff as a rod, and dripping pre-cum. He unpeeled his red flannel shirt from his huge, hairy torso, causing a waft of sweat and cologne to drift past the fairy's nose.

He had a body like a warrior: covered in functioning muscles, with a sturdy layer of fat above them, under his tanned skin. As a now-half-starving, wild creature in the middle of a lean winter, Lilac was ashamed to find his sheer thickness and strength appealing.

Each one of his parts was so much bigger than hers that any contest of wills was absurd. He could destroy her so easily. But based on everything so far, injuring her didn't seem to be his plan.

Despite herself, she felt wetness coalesce inside her swelling cunt. A dewdrop of pussy liquid dripped onto his tongue.

The hunter's smell and vision trip took a turn, from focusing on his conquests of the past, to an inviting, feminine sensation. He tasted wild strawberry juice, and sensed a mind that was not his own speaking to him through his taste buds. The mind was feminine, but wild, and it expressed to him nonverbally that she wanted him, too.

If he had to name the scent of this exact alchemical message, it was cloying, heady lilac.

He gasped, not expecting mutual lust from the tiny creature trapped in his lips. He loosened his jaw, grabbed her gingerly beneath her shoulders, and pulled her out of his mouth. He stared at her dainty form, dripping in both his saliva and her own sparkling wetness.

"You're into me. You tiny slut," he said, smiling slyly.

Lilac spoke up for the first time. "No!" she shouted, turning her head away from his powerful gaze. "Let me go, you cocky asshole!"

She hated that his face was so appealing. Why did she like his smile?

He breathed in her scent. It was obscured by the fluids that were covering her. He moved his hand to close to his face, and huffed in deep. She smelled like cotton candy, and wildflowers.

Lilac shirked away, trying to get as far as possible from his nose while pinned between his giant fingers, but the feeling of the cool air passing over her as he inhaled was refreshing. She realized that she was being worshiped by this enormous creature instead of threatened. She opened her legs, she told herself, to get this over with more quickly. Her tiny, hard clit was swollen with desire.

She couldn't possibly want him to suck her pussy.

He cupped her more in his hand, now holding her with his thumb firmly pressed on one of her sides, and his other fingers securely hugging the opposite. His pinky lightly hovered above her dangling legs. He tilted her a little, her cunt and her face now pointing towards him and the ceiling. The discomfort that came from her weight only being held up by his two fingers went away, as she was now comfortably laying in his hand.

His impossible lips hovered over her, and she twitched, anticipating his next move. He could finally smell her, and the floral expression of her self had increased from before. He licked her with the tip of his tongue, the huge, wet muscle barely grazing her wet cunt. He tasted joy. Wildflowers, honey. Cream and coconut. Pineapple and happiness. He moaned at the deliciousness, his deep voice causing the faerie's whole skeleton to vibrate.

She breathed in and yelped with excitement, blushing.

He licked her again, and again. The giant muscle passed over her screaming cunt in complete sexual overkill. She squirmed once more, but by the third time, she was starting to feel more like a living salt lick than she wanted to.

"Suck," an ethereal voice floated to him from his tongue.

He pulled his tongue in, and put his lips around her little torso. She arched her body up, and hugged his upper lip with her arms. Her dainty head was beneath his huffing nostrils. She leaned on his rough mustache like she was resting on a warm pillow covered in curved kindling.

He pursed his lips on top of her, overwhelming most of the front of her body with tensed muscle, and sucked in.

His gargantuan mouth sucking on her tiny clit was explosively strong. She screamed in ecstasy. He kept sucking. She bucked and ground her cunt into his mouth, shivering, losing control.

"Yes," she said to him through her taste. He tasted victory, and ecstasy. He felt like he was commuting a holy sacrament to God. But, like, a chick version of Jehovah, maybe one who knew a thing or two about sex.

"Aphrodite!" the voice in his head said, as though it heard his musings.

"Yes!" The little feminine voice yelped now. The pleasure shot through Lilac like a shooting star, lighting up the dark night sky inside her. She kicked her tiny feet against the hunter's tight bottom lip, and slammed her open palms against his mustache as she moaned. She sounded like a wild creature.

Her gyrations got slower, and then stopped. The hunter lifted his face from her waist, and tilted his head back, eyes closed. He sighed toward the ceiling.

He didn't know that he could taste something this delicious. It was the taste of ambrosia - the food of the Gods. He lost track of reality for a moment, his mind caught in a sticky layer of happy spiderweb, centered on the droplets of fairy fluid that he was absorbing through his tongue. Her cunt drippings melted like tiny sugar-cubes into his tastebuds.

He sucked it in, and shook his head, trying to come out of this daze. He looked down at the tiny woman in his hand, and grinned, as lust returned to his drugged mind.

His dick was now painfully erect.

"My turn," he said.

He gripped her more tightly, and shoved her tiny form against the top of his cock.

Before she could process what was happening, steamy heat and a musky odor overwhelmed her senses. The entire front of her body was now pressed against this rod of flesh and heat. He was using his thumb to grip her onto the top side of his dick.

She gasped, and turned her head to the side to breathe better. His thumb was resting right beneath her shoulder wing sockets, letting her lift their fragile membranes safely away from the dangerous strength his massive body parts were exerting on her. She fluttered them in relief, and moaned, still shuddering from the flood of endorphins he had sucked into her right before pinioning her so abruptly.

She kissed his dick, and he shuddered, taken aback by how affectionate the gesture was, coming from his tiny captive.

"How sweet," he whimpered, blowing his sweet-tasting captive a kiss.

@bigcuddlygiant Swoon worthy! Thank you for sharing.

@i-am-insane thank you for your perspective.

It’s strange, the way individual men are socialized in the private sphere by most parents and peers really is destructive and dehumanizing to them as people. The private sphere being how we get along with others and ourselves. Our relationships and emotions, that only we and our friends and family see…

But then there’s How men are traditionally seen in the public sphere, in business and politics. Men still are trusted more as business leaders and political leaders. Even today. Just imagine another woman running for president. That probably won’t happen for a while.
Traits associated with masculinity like logic and assertiveness are still positively viewed by most people for leaders, while traits associated with femininity like emotion and collaboration are still seen as negative for leaders.

No wonder so many men are so obsessed with status. Running a company or being a senator seem to be the only ways to be valued as a man. Whereas women, who are taught from birth to gain their value in the private sphere, from friends and loved ones, can just live happier lives, even if they don’t become as financially successful.

What a fucking mess. As annoyed as I get by my female body sometimes, I really feel like I dodged a bullet by not going through masculine puberty and male socialization as a kid. It looks hellish in an even worse way than what I went through as a “female”. The only way I would feel comfortable getting past a role like that would be shedding gender norms like, well, like a nonbinary person.

The straight male role looks like a collar buttoned so tight it cuts off circulation at your neck, but without the possibility of taking it off at the end of the work day. You slip for one moment, and you’re mocked and put down, even as an adult. I hope you guys can take that too-tight shirt off, one’s masculinity is one’s own to invent. Whatever you like about yourself is your positive side - traditionally masculine or not.