Dec. 23, 2024: My giantess presented an interesting idea that popped into her head, and I couldn't wait to sit down and write about it. That's all I'll say about it.
“Let’s go play in the snow!”
It’s like she’s never heard a word I’ve said. My giantess (she lets me back off of the honorifics once in a while) just scooped me up, from where I was practicing watercolors with a … no, let me tell that story.
A few days ago, I complained of restlessness to my Queen, and she heard my petition and honored my concerns. “Perhaps it’s time for Arts and Crafts for you,” spake she, in all her wisdom. We tried clay at first, but even the Femo was too exhausting for me to manipulate into anything meaningful. I think it would actually be useful for exercise, but not for making something expressive, you know, expressing my soul or whatever.
Making glitter-and-macaroni pictures is absolutely impossible without her managing the bottle of glue. That’s right out.
However, when it came down to painting, something unlocked in us and we became very invested. I’ll never forget how she leaned in close, bringing her face down to me, waiting patiently as I sifted through her eyelashes, looking for one loose strand. Once I had the short, coarse hair in my hand, I dipped it into a bottle of ink (an old relic she found in her writing desk, as though she were practicing to be a hoarder) and, to our delight, this worked out very well for writing very fine, controlled calligraphy on nice paper. I wrote her some terrible poetry, tried to dress it up when reading it aloud to her, but in the end I had to admit that even I had some limitations.
Painting was more successful. We started with fingerpainting, and you might well imagine how that went. My Queen gladly stripped me down, dunked me in primary colors, and rolled me or patted me around a sheet of paper, making crude, expressionist patterns wherever she felt the empty space needed something. Once we sobered up from this foray, she tried describing positions for me to hold, and in this way she created her own Tiny Man Alphabet, which made up for in ingenuity what it lacked in technical precision. I mean, I liked it.
After that coarse discipline was abandoned, we toyed with acrylics and oils, but those … they don’t merit mention. Strike them from the record. It was the watercolor that caught our attention, and though she had a fine selection of IKEA brushes in all sizes, suitable for a toddler who didn’t mind a little horsehair in his portrait, we looked for other devices. This led to me holding a toothpick in both hands, approaching that sharp smile that commands my heart, watching her lips and gleaming ivories part, and I rested the tip upon her lower incisors. The end of her tongue dolloped a quantity of her own spit to moisten the head of the toothpick, and then—as I held it—her upper teeth lowered and slowly, meticulously worried and ground at the tip.
The feeling, the sensation of holding onto a shaft of wood that an immensely powerful giantess is gnawing at is a sobering, mind-awakening experience. I watched her jaws work, so brutally powerful yet so precise in their application, with rumbling shocks of her potence shooting straight up my arms, until I forgot what we were doing and why. Her mouth opened, my Queen asked me what I thought, and it took me a moment to come back to reality. I found myself holding a smooth, blonde staff of wood that ended in a usefully furry head of splintered wood. This I dipped into the ink; I stepped onto the paper (a silky-smooth sheet of Clairfontaine) and drew a couple experimental lines, rapidly getting a sense of control and flourish. With a basin of water she provided, I learned to create wells of ink that bled into artistic fades, and the rest is history.
Except I was engrossed in this new pastime for the last couple of days, fascinated at what I could create, and while she was approving, she also had other ideas in mind. That’s where we were when she crowed about the snowfall, snatched me up in her fist (casting a heartrending smear across the face of the little brown bird I was trying to recreate), and sprinted off to her bedroom to get changed.
I never want to appear ungrateful, especially when my Queen chooses to strip down in front of me, but … to be honest, I was really proud of what I was painting back there. I was irritated in ways I did not dare to express, so there was nothing else for me to do but try to swallow it, while she danced around the edge of the bed where I sat, shaking her butt at me while she pulled on thermal leggings and squeezed her succulent, full buttocks into jeans.
It really sucks, to be this mad and having no way of venting it, especially when a beautiful goddess is proffering her body to you. It feels ungrateful, like my priorities are out of whack: yes, I can return to the painting anytime. Yes, I can make another, better portrait. Yes, I would love to be suffocated between her ass cheeks while she gets dressed to romp around outside. But, still …
I don’t know. Sublimation and denial are just skills you learn to master, at this size. Survivable skills.
My Queen waggled her toes cutely before stuffing them into dense, utilitarian wool socks, which would be stuffed into boots. She showed me her delicious apple-breasts pocketed in her lacy bra, covered with a form-fitting tee, then covered again with a jumper, and again with a goose-down coat. What was the point of that display? I would much rather have been stuffed in her cleavage and miss out on the next three layers of clothing.
Once she was dressed, it was apparently my turn. She did not have an array of cold-weather doll’s clothes for me, it should be understood. She trusted her instincts in this matter instead: She packed my T-shirt and jeans with toilet paper, insisting that loose layers were better at retaining heat. Technically true, but I looked like an idiot, unable to move my arms and legs very much. As for my hands and feet, she simply bound these up in cotton and secured them with strands of thread. Great, now I looked like four Q-Tips packed into an emo wardrobe.
My Queen grabbed me and ran outside. “Look at all the fresh snow!” she chirped. “It’s like we’re the first people to exist in this part of the world!” She held me up and turned me around, and I did have to admire how it looked like everything in the environment was coated in a glittery marshmallow fluff. Everything was soft and curvy and enticing—like my giantess—and oh, so silent. Something about the new surface and the thick flakes drifting down in the chilly air deadened the transport of sound waves, and I loved it. It felt like sneaking around the house when everyone was asleep, like finding a utility door unlocked in a government building. The sky was black, the ground was white, and sound muffled and died in the air around us.
“You know what’s one of my favorite things to do?” she asked. Before I could answer, she stuffed me roughly into her jacket pocket. In the cramped darkness of fabric, and what I hope weren’t used tissues, I felt gravity cant sharply behind me. I heard the rustle of all her layers of fabric as she employed herself at something exhaustive. She giggled, far off in the distance, so it wasn’t miserable for her, but to me it sounded like enough dynamic energy to power all of Utah for a month.
Suddenly gravity shifted again, from my back to my feet, and her mittened fingers came grasping for me once more. “Look! Look what I did!” She clutched me in her fist, pointing me in a direction I couldn’t have avoided if I tried. “Do you see? We call that a ‘snow angel’.”
Amid a vast tundra of unblemished snow, sparkling with elegant infrequence as the setting sun caught it, I saw a tremendous figure dug into the hillside of her front yard. It had a head and a torso, with wide triangles for the arms and another sweeping triangle for the lower body. I understood that my Queen had thrown herself backward into the snow, carved out the landscape with swipes of her powerful arms and legs, and rendered this figure dug into the wintry fields. It was even attractive, in its own minimalist way, and I said so. She squeezed me harder, mine not being the answer she expected.
“If you think it’s so simple,” she barked, with not a little bitterness, “why don’t you try?” Before I could protest or even piss myself, she hurled me into the frigid, silent ether. At this point everything slowed down: I saw my Queen turning upside down in a great wheel, replaced by inky sky and cotton sheets of ground, over and over, until everything went white. I didn’t even feel the impact, honestly: I was simply surrounded by a staticky, all-pervasive whiteness. I don’t know how far I fell into it, only that all sound was occluded, and immediately I felt the creeping, prickly cold stabbing its way into the toilet paper around my limbs.
“Oh, no,” I think she screamed.
I’m not sure in what position I landed. I don’t think I was upside down, I would’ve expected my head to fill up with blood, but that was a lifetime ago. Perhaps at this scale, all my inadequate blood supply pumping into my head wouldn’t even register. I fell into the snow, and I must’ve stopped falling, but I couldn’t tell the difference. The heat fled me immediately, taking my tactile sensation with it, and an eerie calm swept over my body.
It was like I couldn’t muster the energy for strong emotions. I couldn’t feel afraid, I couldn’t feel mad at my Queen for ditching me in the snow. There was only crystalline white all around me, and my limbs stopped obeying my commands to move, and … I don’t know how to explain it, but it felt like a countdown. Like some nightmarish surgeon had put me under anaesthesia and was telling me “now you’ve lost movement and temperature sensation, so you’re not going to feel this blade.”
Even that concern passed. My limbs stiffened, so movement and resistance wasn’t even a question anymore. I felt my cheeks start to crystalize, and this captured my imagination rather than never seeing the world I left behind or even missing my Queen’s beautiful mouth. My last thoughts were of wonder at turning into a popsicle.
I have to assume she grabbed me. I can almost picture her huge mitten crashing through the ice, spearing a few times in the little hole my body left in the pristine snow, until her clumsy fingers wrapped around my body. I would like to think she wept hot tears over me, perhaps startled with worry that she might accidentally snap one of my frozen arms clean away from my body. I suppose it’s equally likely she simply guffawed over how stupid I looked.
And she must have brought me back inside, into the house, after my profound failure to make a snow angel. I remember coming to, surrounded not by the ambient blinding glow of a winter day but swaddled in the comparatively dimmer warmth of her living room. I saw the ceiling first of all, a sheet of beige beyond the dark blurry shape that coalesced into my Queen’s face. No longer wearing the stiffened, stuffed clothing, my limbs gradually melted and draped over the curve of her lovely thigh, and the heat from her leg rose up into my body, setting off a nightmarish sequence of pins-and-needles from the top of my skull to my toes.
“That didn’t work out so well,” she said. I couldn’t tell whether she was truly disappointed or if she actually felt some slight degree of remorse. I’ve told her time and again, when a Tiny gets buried in snow, they don’t hibernate. They freeze solid, and they don’t come back. There’s an exception to this, but it’s only a rumor and I didn’t tell her about it, so if she cared for me at all she should’ve been frightened to death about what she nearly did to me. I didn’t see any sign of this, but then, what kind of Queen would she be if she betrayed any weakness around me?
“It did not.” It was easy to agree with her on this point, though I was prepared to combat with her on any other.
My Queen spoke slowly. “I’m sorry for what I did to you. I hope I didn’t cause any lasting harm.” Whether she was composing her thoughts on the fly or holding something larger back, I couldn’t tell.
“I think I’ll be fine in a few minutes,” I said, “if you can condescend to letting me rest here.”
Then I realized I’d been gone longer than I was aware of, as she seemed to have a wet bar and charcuterie at hand beside her. She raised the slender eye-dropper to my face, and reflexively I stuck out my tongue, to break the surface tension of what turned out to be a droplet of peppermint schnapps. It flooded me, and as I choked and my chest very welcomely caught fire, she tore off a fatty pinch of soppressata and let me gnaw on it for as long as I needed.
“I am sorry,” she emphasized, and despite nearly dying my heart went out to her.
“You didn’t know,” which was blatantly false. “I know you didn’t know. You wouldn’t have done something so mean intentionally, not to me.”
Her shaggy head nodded above me. My vision couldn’t quite focus on her, whether she was smirking or crying. “I won’t do that again, that’s for sure. You scared me for a minute there … for quite a while. I wasn’t sure you’d make it.”
I wanted to yell at her for being so careless with me. I wanted to curse her out for her willful forgetfulness, for her callousness with a fragile, helpless person who relied on her, but that’s not what I did. I consoled her, this big dumb oaf, as her hot tears fell on her thigh around me. I assured her no harm was done, it could happen to anyone, I loved her now as much as ever, and I urged her to put it out of her mind, for both our sakes. Whatever that meant.
And apparently she made cocoa. The eye-dropper was still aromatic with schnapps as she dolloped a dose of hot cocoa into my mouth, and gods curse me, I fell in love with her all over again.
After several minutes of fattening me on cocoa, sausage, and a selection of fine cheeses, she said, “I have a better idea, anyway. You’ll love it.” I did not love the suggestion of this, I have to assert now, but to be fair I did change my mind later.
My Queen brought me (once I was fully flexible) to the front window, overlooking the yard and the scene of her beautiful snow angel and the tiny little divot that represented my near-death experience. The sun had almost completely gone away, leaving the street lights to bear the heavy burden of visibility on our block: two cars across the street were buried under snow, leaving them charmingly rounded and fluffy in contrast to the sleek, predatorial design their manufacturers had intended. It gave me some pleasure to imagine the irritation of their owners as they came out to go to work without budgeting enough time to clear them off.
But it wasn’t the yard she wanted to show me. My Queen pinched the collar of my T-shirt and hoisted me into empty space, turning slightly before her … frankly beautiful visage. I could see a tiny curved reflection of myself in the lenses of her eyes, crossing adorably to pin me in her gaze. She licked the corner of her mouth absently as she carried me away, pressing me against a pane of glass. The glazed window wasn’t as cold as it could have been, but it was still colder than her thigh and not as soft as the alcohol made me feel.
My Queen admired me for a moment, tilting her head cutely with a slightly dreamy expression. I blinked in confusion, but before I could frame a question she advanced upon me, jaws wide open.
I don’t know if you’re familiar with this, but the transition from nascent arousal to abject terror is … confusing. Each one feeds into the other, in that moment, very rapidly. I saw her perfect teeth stretching in deadly half-circles above and below me, and some confused and stupid part of me wanted her to chew on me until I came. That doesn’t make sense. Her tongue was a twitching, raspberry-colored bed of sensuality that led to the flexing curtains around her throat, yawning with a blind hunger to consume me whole. Death and sex, sex and death: these instincts pivoted heavily in my tiny body as I saw the shards of light flash on her teeth, heard her vulnerable womanly whimpers in the back of her throat, watched the saliva course behind her incisors, and felt the miasma of her humid breath, sweet with decay, gusting over me.
And again.
And again. Her thumb held the collar of my shirt secure against the pane, with shocks of cold kissing the backs of my forearms and legs, and my Queen moaned sensually as her breath flooded over her tongue and surrounded me. I could only breathe her exhaust; my face misted with the humidity of her output. It was my privilege to stare into her sacred oral cavity, staring at every last detail laid bare to me, watching the mechanics of her eating-orifice as she exposed it to me like spread thighs or toes or butt cheeks.
That’s my perspective, anyway. She may have a different opinion.
Her heavy breathing transitioned to a satisfied grin. “That should do it. Let’s see how we did.” Her grasp lifted me carefully from the glass, and once again she suspended me before her glinting, glowing eyes, appraising me with unfathomable motives. Her left eye winked at me, a gesture I haven’t seen in forever, and slowly she rotated me in empty space to view the window once more.
There, blurring the view of the late-evening winter wasteland, was a pane of glass foggy with light condensation. A few spear-like ice crystals began to form at the edges, where the old insulation between pane and frame wasn’t enough to hold out all of the cold. More importantly, however, was the gap in the middle: in the center of the fog formed by my Queen’s holy breath was an empty space amid the hazy mist, a man-shaped void that perfectly caught the darkness outside.
It was me. That was my shape, the darkened emptiness in the middle of the bleary haze she cast upon the glass. Not quite a snow angel, but still … something. She showed me where I’d been, and in so doing she showed me that I existed, I mattered. I weighed nearly nothing, I would be less than half a snack if she decided to gobble me up, but in this moment she illustrated that I had mass, I had matter, I mattered.
There was a me-shaped image on her window, worthy of her eyes and her attention. She was proud of it, of her cleverness in forming it, and she showed it off to me to show me. “See what we did together,” I think she said, and if I weren’t dangling from her fingertips I could’ve made love to her thumb.
As it played out, however, she continued to get me drunk on spiked cocoa and rubbed me into herself intimately on the couch, before a video of a birch wood fire. I don’t remember much after that.