Nov. 23, 2024: "Perhaps this man offers her something more than his size, his touch, his submission. Perhaps he offers her his creativity, crafting gifts and stories that delight her, that make her feel seen, adored, understood. And in return, she nurtures him, challenges him, and gives him a love so immense it could only belong to a being of her stature."
The giantess sighed slightly as her hips hit the cushion, and she nestled back into the couch, finding the perfect position for sitting still for a long time. “This is your night,” he had assured her, which also meant “please hold still and remain accessible to my particular context.” He had allowed her to turn on the string of colored Xmas lights up around the bay windows, drangled over her collection of houseplants; he’d forbidden her from turning on a streaming music service, no matter how quietly it played, which made for a large, empty apartment. Her night, sure, within certain parameters.
She missed the grand entrance. She missed Trevor, dressed in a fine, royal blue silk robe, strutting from the bedroom with as majestic an air as a three-inch-tall man could muster. Even without the music playing, she couldn’t hear his 0.3-ounce footsteps padding across the hardwood floor, and she didn’t know that he’d started the procession while she was still plugging in the lights, setting up a folding table with her steaming mug of tea in easy reach, and lighting a few scentless candles—the artificial aromas of other festive tapers literally choked his tiny airways. It had been hard enough to explain to her friends why she was engaged to a man the size of her thumb. It would’ve been no picnic to fabricate a plausible story around his disappearance, when every weekend they were all, “So, what’s your travel-size lover up to?” “How’s the Mean Mouthful been treating you?” “Hey, you know that sustainable-energy fuck-twig you call your boyfriend? Where do I get one?” If they’d spent as much time on compassion as they did on postmodern kenning ...
Rio settled into the couch, stretched out her long, denim-clad legs, and crossed her bare feet at the ankles, right about the time Trevor passed under the first brace of the folding table. He was chanting to himself, something majestic and droning, that had no chance of rising beyond the cushions of the couch that reached up beside him like the White Cliffs of Dover. No, this part was for him: he stretched out his arms, to embrace the aura of his girlfriend (or as much aura as emanated around her ankles), to drink in her essence as he commenced the evening of Reverence for the Goddess. The title of the event made her wince every time he said it, and in response he only intoned it with greater and greater solemnity.
“Honey, isn’t that a little corny—”
“THE EVENING OF REVERENCE FOR THE GODDESS, Goddess, goddess …”
But Rio was game for it. Life with Trevor was a never-ending Whitman’s Sampler of surprises, which her previous three significant relationships couldn’t claim. She had to remain open to—
Something bumped into her big toe. She looked down and saw the tiny figure in shimmering blue locking her big toe around his thighs, shouldering the shortest brush-like implement they could find in the house, as he commenced to painting the broad platter of her nail. She pursed her lips and leaned back, practicing deep breathing exercises and staring at the blear of colored lights on the ceiling from the window.
Another bump, and she looked down again. “What have you done?” The tiny man stepped back, and she craned her leg up to her lap, grasped her foot to wrench it within the range of visibility. The big toe now bore an image of her own face: caramel skin and springy mocha mane, and the slightly-too-wide grin he insisted he loved about her. The style was somewhere between watercolor and anime, and … it touched her. It was how he saw her, the traits he adored in her, and now she understood a little bit more about him.
Rather than fall all over herself, babbling her gratitude and amazement to him, she simply replaced her foot on the floor with a touch of ceremony and granted him a slight nod. The tiny man bowed deeply and began the long trek up her foot. Rio lost track of Trevor’s touches and weight as he crossed the stretch of jeans over her shin, but soon enough he popped up over her kneecap. Cute as this was, she couldn’t break character and ooh and ahh over him like she wanted to. She simply lifted her eyebrows in regal tolerance and looked down her nose at the tiny figure.
Trevor caught his breath during the grandiose stride up her thigh. Her leg burned hotly through the denim. Her body heat, intimate and sweet, soaked into his feet and wafted in wavy cartoon lines around his diminutive self. One colossal thigh, with its sister beside it, stretched before him, and here he sat down and folded his legs beneath him.
“Ode to a Gorgeous Slice of Meat,” he called up to her, pleased as her long, graceful fingers fell over her lips as she stifled a giggle. At first she scolded him over likening him to food, citing dehumanization and racial relations, but it became an in-joke to them. Obviously, there was no part of her body small enough for him to take into his mouth, and on the other side of that coin, she loved his hot little tongue on various places of her body.
“To witness the size of these supple thighs
It brings my blood to boil
Not as in rage but in love’s sweet cage
As between these limbs shall I toil …“
There rest was not much better, Trevor knew that, but it did speak to his affection for her as well as his unique perspective. Rio was a sumptuous creature in her own right, and at their ratio she was well-suited to overwhelm him in sybaritic bliss, blocking the world out until he knew nothing but her sensuality, the workings of her inner structure, the muscles, the fluids … He paused dramatically, catching his breath, pushing out the lurid imaginings as he tried to focus on the elegiac verses he’d memorize.
Rio stared in disbelief at the little figure knotted on her right thigh. Part of her wanted to ask what this little fuck thought he was doing; another part was getting warm and gooshy at this display. She knew he’d been working on this poem for a couple weeks. There were times when he even turned down sex, when she knocked on the dollhouse he stayed in sometimes and wouldn’t answer the door, because he needed to “get the words just right.” No amount of cajoling and insisting she loved him as he was would dissuade him, so she learned to respect his process and take a shower in the evening with the detachable nozzle boasting fifteen different settings.
When this was done, when he was done hammering his way through the iambs and barely legal rhyme schemes, he rose unsteadily to his feet, balanced upon the column of fat and muscle wrapped in blue jeans, and proceeded up to her hip. At his request she wore her Irish fisherman’s sweater, full of knots and twists and loops for him to grasp. The tiny man made short work of this climb, pulling himself over the loose folds and somehow avoiding distraction in her chest, until he crawled over her shoulder and stood, one warm, tiny palm planted against her neck. This was a feature that had surprised them both: just looking at each other, each of them assumed he would be tall enough to reach up to her ear and climb it, speak into it, whatever. But in practice, Rio’s neck was too graceful and swanlike, and Trevor, though well-proportioned, was too stumpy to even hop up and grasp her lobe.
In a gesture of largesse, Rio simply turned her face away from him, as though momentarily displeased with her vassal. This provided him the opportunity to wrap his fists around her springy tresses and climb and swing his way up to the well-turned shell of her ear. Hanging from her hair, he leaned closer, bringing his head into her aural canal. Here the acoustics changed. His normally thin, spindly little-man’s voice now became clearer, deeper. He didn’t need to raise his voice much to fill her skull with his resonant tones, which consequently shivered down her neck with an almost unbearable pleasure.
Suspended there, Trevor cleared his throat and launched into a song he’d written for her. His voice was a little unsure at first—performance anxiety—and the chord progression was more eclectic than what she was used to on the radio, but it was wholly Trevor. Unusual, unconventional, but with a little patience one developed a taste for it.
“She shadows me, overshadows me
She reaches to the sky
She’s focused me, somehow she noticed me
And I’ll never know just why
“They named her after a river
So sinuous and long
I’ll swim in her, give in to her
And sink into her song”
Trevor didn’t have a bad voice, Rio felt. He went manic one night, trying to describe the drums he imagined, where the bass would carry through the bridge, and what he thought keyboards might do. There was no chance of him assembling a band, but he managed the difficult change-ups very ably with his a cappella version. She could hear the accompaniment in his passion, and even though he was practically lodged in her head like a Q-Tip, she could nonetheless see the intensity in his expression. It amazed her, time and time again, how such a tiny body could blast out such emotion, such strength of emotion, to the point she felt her own body rocked by his love for her.
When he finished, he didn’t have time to ask “so, what’d ya think” before she plucked him from her hair, cupped him in her palm, and roared into his little body with the breathy rasp meant to represent 20,000 screaming fans in a stadium. Couched in the warm, soft bulges of her hand, he stared up into her mouth and just fucking melted.