In the course of conversation, my new giantess came up with another idea I wanted to play with.
Dec. 20, 2024: "I would wrap you up in my scarf and talk you out for a walk. Whilst walking, you can catch the falling crumbs of my blueberry muffin and lick the edges of my mouth after each sip of coffee."
“Come on, pet,” She said. “Let’s go out for a walk.”
As if I had any choice in the matter. I looked up just in time to see Her broad palm spread waxy and pink as Her splayed fingers wrapped around me. “But I don’t have any winter clothes.” I don’t know why I bothered saying this, it would have been as effective as “I’d rather just nap here” or “please don’t bother me, I’m in a race against time to save the entire planet.” My Queen gets what She wants, and right now She wants me.
I’ve tried to warn my Queen about winter for people like me. It’s not unrelated to the problem of why giantesses can’t exist in this world: it’s a question of mass. A giantess of any respectable proportions would put out too much heat without enough surface area to dissipate it, and I guess she'd die of an intense fever. Similarly, my mass is negligible when confronted with cold temperatures: a glass of ice water, or being dropped in a snowbank, would snuff out my little flame without effort.
“Don’t be daft, pet,” She said. “I wouldn’t let anything like that happen to you.” She stuck my legs in Her mouth and pinched my waist with Her lips while She donned Her cold-weather garb.
“Famous last words.”
“I’d have plenty more to say after you’re gone.”
“Famous last words I’d ever get to hear, then.” I frowned. “That’s not better. The last words I get to hear are of some cold, unfeeling behemoth before I'm condemned to an icy grave? What a world.”
She laughed, booming around my tiny body, then plucked me from Her jaws. “You’re lucky you’re so cute, or else I’d gobble you down out of spite.” With a quirk of Her lovely, sharp grin, She released me. I screamed for as much time as it took for me to plummet from Her grasp and tumble safely into Her scarf.
I lay there for a second, looking up at my Queen’s proud jaw, the enticing nostrils peeking beyond Her lips. She stood there, posing imperiously like a colossus of the ancient world, constructed to welcome allies and frighten off enemies—silent, imperious, the picture of confidence.
My sternum popped with the depth of my heaving sigh. “Okay, fine, this would actually be lovely.” I nestled down into the immense folds of Her scarf, the fibers smooth and soft even from my micro-perspective. Her lips smirked, and then I heard the jingle of Her keys, watched Her door swing wide and heard it thunder behind us. Beyond the peaks and plains of Her face I observed the ceiling sailing by, and I bounced slightly with every step She took down the staircase. Her nose gusted warm air upon me, and before She could reach the front door I tugged a heavy fold of scarf over my body and nestled against Her neck.
Oh, my Queen’s neck, my goddess’s bare skin. It was like getting away with something illicit and savory. I curled up around Her neck, feeling Her pulse thrumming gently against my chest. My legs, against Her larynx, vibrated with the tuneless tune She hummed. And I reached up with both arms to follow the curve of Her neck, as though it were possible at my size to hug Her with my whole body. From below Her visage I saw Her cheek swell with Her smile, and then I heard the heavier deadbolt unlatch.
Christ, the bitter cold wind that hit me! Hit Her too, but She enjoyed the momentary shock of it. It didn’t mean life-or-death to her, it was just something that was supposed to be unpleasant but which could be appreciated in limited quantities. Like cilantro or coffee. Why do people like bitter, acrid, or peppery-acidic flavors? They’re supposed to be warnings of a poisonous presence, yet we have entire industries built around harvesting them, processing them, packaging them up and shipping them around the world. We make no sense.
“How are you tolerating it, little one?”
My Queen’s voice vibrated against my thighs and hips, and I wanted to tell Her to keep talking because I’m pretty sure She could’ve made me come, but if She would have sensed that I was asking Her to do that in order to achieve orgasm, She would’ve fallen deathly silent, out of Her particular brand of playfulness. Instead, I simply shivered a little more violently against Her throat, and I felt Her fingertips shoving more soft, lavish fabric around my body, tucking me against Her neck. “Can’t have you freezing up on me, now, can I? There’s only so much fun one can have with a frozen little man.” Her throat worked as She laughed. “Granted, it’s a lot of fun, but there’s only so much of it.”
I clung to Her neck, embedded in this lovely scarf, and the gentle shockwaves of Her footsteps traveled up Her immense body to thud into mine. I didn’t ask where we were going; I didn’t really care. I was with my giantess, and She had me, and hugging Her graceful neck was all I was concerned with at the moment.
Even the cold air wasn’t that bad, really. It was kind of a pleasant counter to the abundant heat rising from Her body and getting trapped in the scarf. She spoke to me, asked me questions about winter where I came from, and told me stories of Her childhood. There’s just something about snow that brings out the nostalgia in people, I’ve noticed. Maybe because it’s associated with the holidays, or maybe we have a broader genetic, generational memory and the snow means the end of a year, making us look back at what we’re leaving behind.
Yeah, beaches and lemonade keep people in the moment. They don’t provoke people to think about the holidays of our past and the people who are no longer with us. Huh, never thought about that before.
Heralded by tinkling bells, the cold air was swiftly replaced by hot air fully laden with roasted coffee beans. Ah, She was going out for coffee anyway! I resisted the urge to crane my head up over the folds of Her scarf, to look at the menu, to look for any cute women in the cafe, stuff I would’ve done in another life. Regardless, Her fingertips came up again, wrapped the scarf around me and swaddled me deep in fabric. I’m glad it was such a soft, gentle scarf, like cashmere or something. I lay there, sniffing the scent of warm wool, and listened to my giantess as She ordered a muffin and a coffee, a regular coffee.
Huh, not a girly-girl, my Queen. No pumpkin spice latte, no caramel mochaccino, just … a straight-up coffee. There’s still so much to learn about her.
Outside again with another tinkling of bells, and it seemed She was resolved for a longer walk this morning. “Where to, puddin-pop?” She asked, knowing it would’ve been comical for me to answer, since I didn’t know Her neighborhood and only had two good guesses as to which nation I was in. She took charge and away we went.
“What’d you get?” I was just being conversational, of course I was there for Her order.
By way of response, She tugged Her scarf partway down. An icy breeze flowed over my vulnerable body—all I had was a black T-shirt and black jeans, miniatures She special-ordered from an online boutique—and … it was nice. I enjoyed the kiss of ice particulate, while still embedded in the warmth of Her scarf. I looked up, and Her huge jaw was in motion. The muscles on the side of Her cheek flexed as Her jaw opened and lowered, Her chin coming closer and closer to me. The blinding off-white sky was momentarily occluded by an enormous blueberry muffin, the puffy head of which was tilted into Her mouth.
Slowly She bit into it. I watched the minute muscular activity as Her jaw closed in a controlled movement. It wasn’t that the muffin was tough, but rather that it was fluffy and crumby and She didn’t want to lose too much. And it was hot, and She wanted to savor it. Believe me, I understood that.
Regardless of my Queen’s efforts, I was still lightly sprinkled with various-sized crumbs, toasty brown from the outside, vanilla yellow and stained indigo from the inside. I nearly asked Her if She'd done that on purpose, but it didn’t matter. If She had, it was just another gesture of Her affection; if She hadn’t, then maybe I’d embarrass Her with Her sloppiness, and I didn’t want that. Instead, I sat up partially and collected all the crumbs I could reach.
Wow, they were so moist! And warm, like maybe this one came from a fresh batch. Even my tiny fingers could squeeze a large, moist crumb of muffin. I gathered them on my belly, like an otter, and nibbled at the dough that had gooshed out from between my fingers.
Mmm, that was fantastic. A fresh blueberry muffin, and all it needed was a pat of butter, but even without it was still a delicacy, an indulgence. I closed my eyes and savored the breakdown of the muffin in my mouth, letting the carbs melt in my saliva and trickle toward my throat. My Queen’s throat shivered beside me as She moaned in a similar delight, and I leaned into Her throat to drink in every last tremor.
On we walked, and I could see winter-dead boughs stark against the overcast sky. I saw telephone poles, towering and stout, and the long whips of telecommunicative wiring that bound this city to the next, tethered this nation to the rest of the world. Briefly I wondered if I’d ever see my own country again, but as I watched Her slight, feminine Adam’s apple bob up and down with Her swallowing, I found it hard to care whether I did or not. I placed my palm upon Her larynx, and immediately my arm tingled with the thrill of being so close, intimately close with an enormous predator, feeling Her body work as She took in food and began digesting it. Maybe the fear of easily picturing myself sliding down Her throat heightened my arousal, but I wasn’t aware of that. I was just very present with the sensation of feeling Her throat work, my entire awareness of my giantess localized strictly to Her throat, reading every microgesture for what it might tell me about my Queen.
“This is actually a lot like where I grew up,” my Queen was saying, and I realized that my Queen had been talking to me the entire time. Her head turned ponderously above me, Her chin pointed in a direction. “My house was kind of like that, but we had a bigger yard. Or maybe I think it was bigger because I was small.” Her throat jogged up and down against my palm as She laughed. “Not as small as you, but still smaller. That yard’s probably a jungle to you, or it would be if it wasn’t covered in snow. Now it’s … what would you call it? Hoth?”
I appreciated that. She was scraping for references I might get, and that was kind on Her part.
I lay hammocked in my giantess’s scarf, admiring the smoothness of Her underjaw, feeling myself intoxicated by the steady, thrumming vibration of Her throat as She yammered on about whatever popped into Her majestic skull. I couldn’t imagine a nicer day than this, lying cradled just beyond Her collarbones, watching Her mouth and jaw work as we strolled through Her city. There weren’t many people out today, so there was a low risk of getting spotted by strangers. Any time we did pass by someone, She simply brought Her to-go cup up to Her lips.
“Oh,” She said, “I’ve made a mess. Would you be a dear?”
This startled me out of my reverie. Was I going to be useful for something? She told me I was, and I realized I’d cried that aloud in my shock. “Well, what can I do for you?”
She grunted “mm! mm!” and turned Her cheek to fill my view. Above, I saw a translucent but unmistakably brown rivulet of fluid making its way down from the corner of Her lips.
“This looks like a job for Superman,” I murmured, but the scarf I’d been admiring was less than helpful when I tried to brace my limbs against it and pick myself up. She grunted more urgently as the trickle neared the line of Her elegant jaw, picking its way through fine, short, glassy hairs, like a … no, not like a pachinko at all. I don’t need to analogize this.
I did end up righting myself, scooting back and standing before my bare feet could slip over the cashmere. I leaned against Her throat, orienting myself, then reached out easily for a fold of scarf and stepped beneath the disaster. There it was, a trail of coffee working its way down Her cheek, and it must’ve been maddeningly ticklish, the way Her cheek twitched and Her eye flinched.
“Don’t worry, my Queen, I’ve got it.” I placed my little palms upon the broad bony surface of Her jaw, immediately warmed by Her skin, and went up on tippy-toe to reach the droplet.
No good. It was still too high. I tried pulling down on Her cheek, as though I could possibly tug Her entire massy head down. My gesture was too small for Her to pick up the hint.
“Oh, do I have to do everything around here,” my Queen moaned. Instantly a large knit bedding knocked me off my feet, dug into the backs of my knees so I collapsed onto it. I realized She was wearing mittens—how cute! Nobody does that!—and I quickly grabbed onto the interlocking weave as She lifted me up to Her face.
Then it was nothing at all to lean in and lap up the coffee that nearly made its way to Her jawline. I discovered She does take a little sugar with it, or did today, and no cream. I touched my tongue to the offending droplet, broke the surface tension, and it flooded into my mouth of its own volition. Fortunately, my Queen has been teaching me how to drink within these new laws of physics, using an eyedropper and various brands of alcohol.
I got really lucky with this one, let me tell you.
I sucked the coffee down, substantially cooled by the time I got to it. I repositioned my palms on either side of the rivulet and leaned in to lick the sticky, sweet, roasted trail off Her skin. She was still walking this whole time, I should note, but She held Her hand remarkably steady as I perched on Her mitten and lapped at Her cheek. I worked my way up like this, licking Her clean by centimeters, and we worked out a system where I shouted as hard as I could, and She lifted me ever-so-slightly higher, and in this way I cleansed Her cheek with my hot little tongue.
The huge wall of Her cheek twitched before me as She asked, “Is that all?” Her breath, humid and redolent with coffee, formed a brief cloud around my entire body.
Well, no, that wasn’t all. There was more, but it was on Her lips, and I just felt that would have been presumptuous.
She didn’t feel the same way. “Get it all,” She growled, “or I might just slip and drop you. And I wore my spiked boots today.”
We’d been together long enough that such descriptions of overkill didn’t register with me anymore. I mean, sure, I pictured what it would’ve been like for Her … no, I won’t even go there. She’d given me permission to do the unthinkable: lick Her mouth clean.
Her mitten elevated, Her lips pulled back in that characteristic grin, and I placed one hand on Her cheek and one on Her bottom lip. There was maybe a centimeter of coffee left on Her skin before it stained Her pink lips. Dutifully I leaned in, salivating as I carefully lapped up the remainder of the coffee on Her skin, leaving only … my Queen’s lips.
My heart pounded against my ribs as my face neared the corner of Her mouth. I have permission, I told myself, She wants me here. She gave me permission, this is okay. She wants this.
I tried to close my eyes, to more romantically savor the experience, but no, my eyes wanted to soak in every second of this. My tongue dragged over Her soft lip, right in the corner of Her mouth, and tasted the coffee that had started to dry there. My tongue followed the curve of the corner of Her mouth, running up to Her upper lip, over the ridges and tiny little bumps, tasting Her coffee and then tasting Her precious lip.
I moaned quietly. It didn’t even have a chance to echo in Her mouth, drowned promptly in Her slight breathing. I continued licking, a little more hungrily now. My cock stiffened in my starchy doll’s jeans. Ambient light glowed all around us in this winter landscape, glowed brightly to drain the color from the lips I sucked on, glowed in fierce, crisp streaks over the canine and premolars inches away from my tiny little head. I dragged my tongue along in languid trails over Her lips, back and forth, no longer even cleaning anything, just basking in the heavy panting of this tremendous beast, the breath of this goddess that sustained me, right up against the sharp ivory rocks that would’ve made quick work of me. All of it, Her tender pink gums, the slight well of saliva inside Her bottom lip.
My fingers ran over those gums. I dipped my head and touched my tongue to Her saliva; it didn’t flood my mouth as quickly as the coffee had, but it wanted me. I wanted it too.
There was no warning, My Queen’s laughter simply exploded around my whole body. “I think you’ve done a good enough job,” She said. Her mitten carried me from the edge of Her mouth—oh, how my heart broke—and dropped me into the cashmere wadded beneath Her ear. “Why don’t you tell me a story?”
And so we walked on, Her long strides carrying us throughout this foreign city, the occasional gust of frigid winter air stinging my bare arm or exposed cheek, as I leaned into the darling shell of Her aural canal and told Her all my childhood memories of winter and holidays from a world I’d never see again.