Posts made by tiny-ivy

@taedis I am so tickled that you are doing this, and I appreciate the deadline. I just started writing my story for this tonight, after pondering it for months.

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.

@taedis When is your preferred deadline?

I could submit something I’ve already written, but I have a sweet short story in my noggin that I might write up just for this, because I think the concept is more worthy of being published than anything I’ve already made. A deadline would be handy.

Thank you!

Ooh! “Should I write something someone will want to publish, or should I write something size erotic” is a question at the top of my mind right now, so this is a great post to see! I will definitely submit at least one story, maybe two.

@olo is this for me? an AFAB genderfluid person who is incredibly turned on by the song The Becoming , and loves giant men, and fantasizes about becoming a man, and robots?? What a hot twitter account. Will follow.

@2ndsolesurvivor I love the structure of an unrequited crush here. It’s so sad and so relatable to anyone who’s nursed one of those annoyingly things! Great job!

@olo these are fantasic. Thank you for sharing your vast archive here!

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.

@gold-phish Thanks for coming here! Oh hai Phish!

@2ndsolesurvivor !! I love the giant’s look! I look forward to more.

@2ndsolesurvivor I love this. All of the fun of destruction with none of the evil or death that it’s usually coupled with. I look forward to reading more of this. Thanks for posting!

@inkchild I’m really amused that based on this thread, there are already two Giant Cop themed games.

Looking back, back in the day, there was a Giant Pet / God themed game called “Black & White.” It was a battle simulator and city building game of sorts with a magic system and a giant animal avatar with AI that you had to train. My fav part though was my giant god-hand that I could toss rocks and enemy villagers with. It had a wild physics engine, very creative controls for the time.

I would SO contribute to a Kickstarter for a dedicated G/t VR experience!

@lux_aeterna
What a wonderful thread. Here I was, logging onto this site to get some inspiration for a size story I am writing and to maybe find a hot thing to read, and I am now becoming fans of several new musicians who sing in languages I don’t understand.

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.

@ripper
I love a man in a sharp, tailored suit. I am not a foot fetishist, I swear, but an expensive leather loafer looming over a scene is just, chef’s kiss.
I also like goth bois. I can only imagine a new romantic with lace and eyeliner - oh crap, I think I have to write that story, now.
Athletic wear can be hot if it’s tight on a muscular giant, same with jeans, but those weird , baggy basketball shorts that most dudes at the gym wear? No thanks. Baggy just doesn’t work for me on a giant.