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He hurried down the immense corridor, past swarms of other workers. Most of them were getting off their shift and so he was fighting against the crowd, like a salmon swimming upstream. He shoved and elbowed his way forward, more concerned about being late than irritating people.

He definitely did not want to be late.

His official title was Assistant. There were numerous Assistants and turn-over was high, not because people quit their jobs but because she disposed of them, like a woman exterminating bothersome roaches. “She” was known only as the Tyrant, ruler of all humanity. For as long as anyone could remember, the entire world had served her, although he knew that hadn’t always been the case. There was The Time Before. Any mention of The Time Before was illegal, of course, and could result in a stiff fine if overheard by a Patrolman. It could result in a gruesome death if overheard by the Tyrant.

His name was Ambrose, although his boss and overlord and living goddess simply referred to him as “Assistant.” She never bothered to call anyone by their real names; why should she when she clearly saw them as disposable objects to be used as she saw fit? Ambrose had taken the position at the insistence of his best friend Jonas. It was either this job or virtual slavery in the factories or agricultural outposts. Both choices were terrible, but at least this option provided him with good food and housing. Besides, people feared and respected those who directly served the Tyrant.

Ambrose had only been at his job for three months but it felt like the longest three months of his life. The horrors that he had witnessed would sometimes keep him up at night and he had tried everything to sleep, prescription medication and alcohol and even herbal remedies. Nothing worked. He would often sit on the edge of his bed during the late hours of the night, wondering when it would be his turn. One wrong move, that’s all that it took.

So that was why he practically sprinted down the corridor. Being late to work would certainly attract her attention and that could be lethal for him. It was always better to simply blend in, to just be one of the many Assistants. Ambrose stopped running only when he made it to the throne room. Fortunately, there were dozens of other Assistants already there and he slipped in among them, still panting.

To say that the throne room was impressive would have been an understatement. It was bigger than several stadiums, opulently decorated with some of the world’s finest artwork that had been seized from museums like the Louvre. Ambrose recognized some of the pieces, priceless paintings by Monet and Picasso and so many others. There were jewels everywhere as well, the finest diamonds and rubies and sapphires, many of them torn from their original settings and skillfully made into mosaics on the soaring walls. All in all, the collection was like a dragon’s hoard, beautiful and yet carefully guarded by a monster.

The center attraction was the throne, though, a gargantuan chair made of marble and inlaid with gold and silver. It was built on a mind-boggling scale, easily a hundred and fifty feet tall, more like a tall building than a throne. The first time that Ambrose had seen it, he had been overcome with awe, especially when he had spotted the woman seated upon it.

No, “woman” wasn’t the correct word for what she was. “Deity” was a better choice. She certainly resembled one, beautiful beyond mortal comprehension. Her dark brown hair flowed over her shoulders, her eyes an intense bluish-gray color that always made him think of Athena from mythology. The Tyrant’s taste in clothing, like her throne room, was lavish. It took teams of seamstresses and tailors weeks to create an outfit for a being who stood twenty stories on average. Today she wore a darkly-purple dress, low cut to show off her slender neck and the dazzling necklaces that adorned it. Her multi-ton jewelry was probably worth more than the combined GDPs of several former countries, not that anyone would complain about such decadence. The Tyrant took what she wanted, when she wanted it. If people starved because the workforce was diverted from the farms in order to fulfill one of her whims, it didn’t bother her in the slightest.

Besides, there were much worse ways to die than starvation.

The Assistants stood respectfully before their goddess, the silence in the room unnerving. They were all dressed identically, men and women alike, their high-necked uniforms a rich shade of blue. The Tyrant was too busy admiring one of her bracelets to acknowledge them, twisting her wrist so that her newest acquisition caught the light streaming through the glass ceiling.  Finally she glanced down at the assembly before her, tiny men and women who barely reached her ankle. Ambrose did not meet the enormous eyes as they scanned the crowd, praying that she would choose someone else.

Thankfully, she did.

“You,” the Tyrant thundered, pointing at a short brunette named Laura. The Assistant blanched considerably and rushed forward, the crowd parting to let her through. She clutched her tablet to her chest, the one that she was supposed to use to inform the Tyrant of her daily agenda. Her footsteps echoed loudly on the floor, the only sound in the vast room as she hurried toward the throne and the column-like legs of the giantess. Laura paused in between the giantess’ truck-sized feet, which were shod in high-heeled cage sandals, and looked down at her tablet. Ambrose sensed that something was wrong when she frowned and tapped at the tablet, then shook it. The computer wasn’t working, he realized with growing horror. Laura understood this as well and she frantically tried to restart the tablet, her hands shaking with such violence that she almost dropped the computer once or twice.

The Tyrant said nothing as the woman fiddled with her computer, just stared down at her with an unreadable expression. Laura was so engrossed in trying to get the tablet to work that she didn’t see the giantess’ right foot lift slightly and slide toward her. It was only when the Tyrant gently nudged her that she glanced up, dropping her tablet in surprise.

“W-wait, I’ll get it to work, I just need a minute,” she babbled desperately.

Far above her, the giantess’ expression didn’t change; her face could have been carved out of the same marble that she sat upon. Only her eyes betrayed her emotions and there was cruelty and sadistic lust lurking there. The foot pushed into Laura again, except this time it was forceful enough to send her sprawling on the floor. Ambrose winced, knowing too well what was coming next. He didn’t want to watch but he did anyway.

Laura tried to stand up, only to be knocked down once more. Terror seized the woman and she began to stutter, trying to apologize. The giantess didn’t respond, just leaned forward with a tremendous rustle of fabric. Slowly, carefully, she raised one sandaled foot above Laura. The Assistant shrieked as the shadow fell over her and she tried to crawl away, only to have her legs pinned when the massive foot came down.

“No! Please! I’m sorry! I’m—,” she started to beg before the Tyrant applied a small amount of pressure. Laura’s pleas became shrill cries of agony as her legs compressed beneath the astronomical weight. Blood rushed to her face as she howled, still trying to drag herself away. The giantess paused, studying her. Then the mammoth foot lifted, revealing the flattened remains of the woman’s legs. Laura looked at the godlike being towering above her, then at the silent crowd of Assistants. It was some godawful twist of fate that she hadn’t fainted yet from shock.

“Help me,” she whimpered, addressing the onlookers. No one moved; a few people looked away with something resembling shame on their faces. The huge shadow returned and she screamed anew as the Tyrant toed her, flipping her onto her back. Laura raised her arms up, trying to ward off the giantess’ foot as it settled on her body from the chest down. A horrible smile split the Tyrant’s beautiful face as she regarded the woman trapped beneath her sole. The Assistant didn’t even have time to scream before she stepped down, Laura’s ribcage crunching and cracking hideously. Her eyes opened impossibly wide and a dark stream of blood burst from her mouth, splattering on the giantess’ huge toes.

The Assistants watched with grim fascination as the Tyrant contemptuously ground the remains of the woman under her foot, smearing her across the floor in wide streaks of red. Ambrose fully understood that it could have been him underneath that foot and he shivered despite the warmth in the room. The giantess finished pulping Laura’s body and the neutral expression returned to her face as she leaned back on her throne. She made a small gesture with one hand, her heavy bracelets jangling.

“Someone clean that mess,” she ordered and everyone rushed to do so.

***

The first thing that Jonas noticed when he met Ambrose for lunch were the dark circles under his friend’s eyes. They were sitting outside in the nearby park, the sky a bright and cloudless blue. Ambrose probably would enjoyed the weather more if he wasn’t so exhausted. As he picked listlessly at his sandwich, which was once again a soy-based protein since real meat was unbelievably expensive, Jonas cleared his throat.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Ambrose mumbled. He was thinking about the mangled remains of Laura’s body, her dead staring eyes. Briefly, he fantasized about running away, toward the uninhibited Northlands that were past the former country of Canada. But he knew that doing so was probably suicide. The Patrolmen would catch him long before he made it and execute him. Or give him over to Her, which was infinitely worse….

“Have you been sleeping any better?”

“Not really. It’s the job—,” Ambrose started, then quickly closed his mouth. One of the Tyrant’s Patrolmen stood nearby, smartly dressed in a black and yellow uniform. Really, there was no need for them, especially in the capital city. Crime was nonexistent, although there were rumors of rebels from time to time. So far, the rumors had been unsubstantiated, although the Patrolmen would be more than happy to stomp out any sort of dissidence, however minor. Talking about his dissatisfaction with his job in front of one of them was therefore not a wise move.

Jonas glanced over at the Patrolman and then nodded, redirecting the conversation.

“You should come up to the cabin sometime,” he suggested.  Jonas had leased the cabin and the surrounding acres of land for a few months, a perk of being high up in the Tyrant’s ranks. It was nice to go there from time to time, if only to escape the overwhelming presence of their ruler.

“Definitely,” Ambrose said, forcing a smile. 

“You can bring Sophia with you, if you want.”

Ambrose wasn’t sure what to say. He had broken up with Sophia a few days prior; she had blamed it on herself, although he knew that it was his constant anxiety that had eventually driven her away. So far, he hadn’t told his friend. Jonas had always been a lady’s man, tall and dark-haired and charming. Ambrose was, well, the opposite. He was short and slender, almost girlishly so, and had never had his friend’s confidence. To admit that he had just lost another girlfriend was humiliating.

“Sure,” he replied.

“It’ll be great…y’know, take some stress off of your mind,” Jonas said.

Ambrose made a noncommittal noise, thinking of Laura and her lifeless eyes.

***

After work, he stopped by one of the government-run stores and purchased a small, cheaply-bound journal. Someone had once told Ambrose that writing was supposed to be therapeutic and at this point, he was willing to try almost anything. He walked the mile back to his housing complex, the buildings made of concrete and spartan in their design. Hundreds lived in this particular complex, most of them servants for the Tyrant. It always reminded Ambrose of the ant farm that he had when he was a child, countless people crammed within the dull gray buildings. But he had seen some of the domiciles where the less-important segment of society dwelled and those were as bad as the old Brazilian favelas. All in all, he considered himself fortunate.

Sometimes he wondered what it was like before the Tyrant rose to power. Did people have normal houses and apartments? What was it like to live without the constant threat looming symbolically and literally over them? Ambrose would sometimes indulge fantasies of what it would be like if the Tyrant was gone. He imagined getting up, driving into work, going home and watching the sunset while he drank a beer. For a moment, he could almost see it and then the image was gone and he was left standing in the dimly-lit corridor of his housing unit.

He opened the door to his apartment; there was no need for him to lock it. No one was willing to risk their lives for whatever he had in his apartment. Everyone had seen what the Tyrant did to those who disobeyed the rules and it was almost always horrific. Once, when Ambrose was a child, he had witnessed a public execution broadcast on the television, watching as the giantess simply ground out convicts underfoot. He hadn’t been able to sleep well that night and instead had been terrified that she would show up outside of his window and accuse him of some crime.

Ambrose shut the door and headed over to his bed, pulling out his new journal from the bag. The apartment was small, like they all were, barely big enough to hold a bed and a chair and a toilet. It did have an excellent view of the Tyrant’s spired palace, which stood out against the darkening sky. The gigantic building was straight out of a fairy tale, brilliantly white with elaborately-crafted towers and turrets. Except he never imagined a princess living there; it was more like the dragon, who had already devoured the princess and who now lay in wait for unwary knights.

After he found a pen, Ambrose sat down on his narrow bed and opened the journal to the first page. He just stared at the cream-colored paper for awhile, knowing that he should write about his plans for the future, what he had for breakfast, anything but the Tyrant. But when he began to write, it all spilled out onto the page:

“This afternoon I saw her watching me. She usually doesn’t pay attention to people much, unless you do something to make her mad or displeased. I was terrified that she would come over and step on me, which is how she normally reacts. But she kept staring at me from her throne and it was the most awful feeling in the world. At one point, I wished that she would just come over and kill me. But she didn’t. Something eventually distracted her and she looked away. I wonder what I did to even warrant her attention…”

***

The journal turned out to be a godsend, even if it put his life at risk. If the Tyrant ever found out what he was writing, she would kill him in a ghastly manner. But he didn’t have much choice; there was no other outlet besides the cardboard-bound book. And so when he returned from work, he often flipped open the journal and wrote, occasionally glancing out the window at the Tyrant’s sprawling palace. That particular night, Ambrose stared at the towering building for a long time. Then he began to write:

“It’s safe to say that she often treats people like animals. But today I saw that she really does view us as little more than cattle. Maggie, one of the other Assistants, called me and said that she was sick, the flu or something. She sounded absolutely terrified, since missing a shift without having a back-up could mean punishment, even death, if the Tyrant was feeling particularly vicious. I told her that I would fill-in for her, as much as I would have preferred not to. As it turned out, I wish that Maggie had contacted someone else.

Despite her powers, the Tyrant is still very human in some ways. Like having to eat, for example. Whether she purposely chooses to limit herself this way or not, no one can say. But I have seen the trucks of food that they have to bring in, enough fruit and vegetables and bread to feed a small city. Oh, and meat. Real meat, beef and chicken and pork and fish. I’ve only had meat once in my life, something from the black market that my mother purchased when I was a little kid. I wonder what it’d be like to buy that sort of thing whenever I wanted, to walk into a store and purchase a real steak just because I felt like it.

Anyway, I saw today what was in the last truck. I could see their faces looking out from the back window, looking like people who were on their way to Hell. Maybe in a way, they were. I had no idea who they were, just that they were in one of the food trucks. Of course, I couldn’t believe that she would actually eat someone. Who would actually do that? I had heard rumors, but I thought they were like the ones that claimed that she made some of her purses from human skin. But now that I think about it, maybe that rumor is real as well.

I honestly didn’t want to see what the Tyrant was going to do to those people. I just wanted to go home and lie in bed and pretend that I hadn’t seen that truck. But I didn’t go home, of course. I went inside the palace, where she was seated upon her throne, her legs casually crossed. She was picking at huge platters of food, entire mountains of it. Normally, I would have been drooling over so much food, but at that moment, I felt sick to my stomach. I watched her eat slowly, obviously bored. Then they dragged out the first people in chains and I was sure that I was going to throw up. It took all of my willpower not to do that. I bit my tongue as hard as I could and watched the giantess bend down and grab the first man…”

The pen froze in Ambrose’s hand and he took a deep breath, suddenly nauseous again. He remembered every detail of what had happened with vivid clarity: the Tyrant had lifted up the tiny man, her massive yet nimble fingers shredding his clothes, like taking the rind off of a orange. The prisoner had been too terrified to do anything but dangle in her hand as she stripped him. It was only when she had raised him to her mouth, her wine-dark lips parting to reveal her gleaming white teeth, that he had started to make frightened noises. His piercing cries had gone unheeded; the giantess had slipped him into her mouth and as if he were simply a sliver of filet mignon, she had begun to chew. The sounds were dreadful as the man squealed, his cries mixed with his bones snapping and his flesh turning to mashed pulp.

Gradually, his agonized shrieks had ceased and the only noise had been the wet squelching of the prisoner’s body being thoroughly masticated by the giantess’ crushing molars. The Tyrant took her time, as if savoring the tiny man’s flavor, before she swallowed. A thin stream of blood had trickled from the corner of her lips and she daintily wiped it off with a napkin as large as a sail. When she had placed the napkin on the arm of the throne, Ambrose had stared at the bright red splotch of blood against the yards of cotton, horribly aware that the stain was all that was left of the man.

The other prisoners, seeing their fate, had either cowered in place or tried to run. Those who had tried to flee quickly found themselves hobbled by their shackles, unable to run fast enough to avoid the Tyrant’s hand as it reached down for them. The giantess had seemed amused that they had tried to escape, and she had smirked as she undressed them.

“No one escapes from me. Ever,” she had informed them, her blue-gray eyes twinkling with malevolence. “You are all mine.”

One by one, she had devoured the other prisoners. Except she hadn’t bothered to chew them this time, instead swallowing them alive and screaming. There had been no reason for her to eat them this way, except for sheer sadism. Ambrose had stared at the giantess as she finished the last of her snacks, then settled back in her throne, cruel delight etched all over her lovely face. He tried not to think about the men and women still alive in her stomach, howling their last in the hot, humid darkness.

Even now, Ambrose was thinking about those victims, obviously dead by now and already forgotten by the giantess who had consumed them. He found that he no longer wanted to write or even think about what had transpired. Instead, he crawled into bed and pulled the blankets up over his body, trying to will himself to fall asleep.

It didn’t work.

***

As he scurried down the hallway toward the Tyrant’s personal quarters, Ambrose tried to concentrate on comforting thoughts. The trip to Jonas’ cabin. His journal. The beer that he had managed to procure on the black market for a steep price (although just seeing the greenish bottles in his mini-fridge was worth the amount that he had paid for them.) But all that his mind could focus upon were the horrors that surely awaited him. Once again, he imagined being able to quit. Of course, that was impossible. No one ever quit their job as an Assistant. The best that they could hope for was to be promoted to an administrative position like Jonas’, still connected to the Tyrant but distanced from her constant cruelty.

That was Ambrose’s goal, to someday end up being a glorified paper-pusher like his friend. It was a million times better than his current job, where he feared for his life every single second of the workday.

He paused on the threshold of the vast doorway, working up the courage to step inside. Light was pouring out, not the harsh brightness of halogens or other artificial lights, but the more mellow golden light of candles. Ambrose had never been inside the Tyrant’s personal quarters and honestly, he had no idea what to expect as he stepped inside. Torture racks, maybe. Or people trapped in wicker men, about to be burnt alive. Nothing would have surprised him.

But the immense room didn’t look like a medieval dungeon. It wasn’t as lavishly decorated as the rest of the palace, either. While the throne room practically glittered with the world’s treasures, the Tyrant’s quarters were spartan, decorated mainly in whites and cool shades of blue. There had to be hundreds of candles all around the cavernous chamber, nestled in wall nooks and placed along the enormous chandeliers that hung from the far ceiling like stalactites.

Ambrose’s footsteps echoed on the whitish-gray marble floor as he approached the center of the room. The Tyrant was sprawled out, her head propped up with one hand, the candlelight illuminating her feminine curves. She was nude, he quickly saw, one massive breast bared for all to see, the other partially hidden behind her arm. There were several people clustered around her breathtaking form, as small as mice compared to the lounging giantess. They were young men, all superbly fit and attractive, the sort of people who would have been models in The Time Before. Most of them wore little more than the Tyrant, their sculpted muscles gleaming even in the low light. Her playthings, no doubt…personal pleasure slaves whose only job was to please their living goddess.

The Tyrant’s gray eyes rested on Ambrose for a split second, then she glanced away without acknowledging his presence. For that, he was relieved, more than happy to stand off to the side and just watch. As he purposely found a place in the shadows, he tugged discreetly at his shirt. It was sweltering in the room and his woolen uniform was making him hot, but he didn’t to say anything as beads of sweat dribbled down his chest and back. That beer had never seemed so appealing to him as it did that moment.

Ambrose was daydreaming about cold drinks and swimming pools when the Tyrant snatched up one of the pleasure slaves without warning. He couldn’t have been more than nineteen, blond-haired and with a tanned muscular body that Ambrose secretly coveted. Each of the giantess’ fingers were longer than the man’s entire body and they wrapped tightly around him, hoisting him high into the air. There was surprise on the slave’s face but to his credit, he didn’t make a sound as she pinched his shorts and ripped them off, fragments of cloth raining down onto the floor. The man still didn’t say anything and Ambrose wondered if he was on some sort of tranquilizer. He probably was, from the way that he stared glassy-eyed at the giant woman holding him.

“Kiss here,” the Tyrant commanded the other tiny men, pointing toward her mammoth breasts, where the drum-sized nipples were already hardening, “I want to feel your lips, slaves.”

The half dozen men carried out her order, gathering around her breasts and caressing the flesh with their hands and mouths. For some odd reason, Ambrose felt jealous of them as he watched their ministrations. The giantess’ skin looked smooth and soft and he imagined how it would feel underneath his own fingertips. He was contemplating this when the Tyrant turned her head just enough to stare at him, a thick lock of hair covering one eye. The other eye regarded him with a chilling intensity, as if she could read his mind.

Perhaps she can, Ambrose thought, suppressing a shiver.

The giantess continued to observe him with the same sort of detachment as a scientist studying an amoeba; then she gazed down at the slave in her hand. Her index finger probed delicately at the man’s penis and balls, eliciting a soft moan from him. She smirked and continued to touch him, her finger moving in small circular motions. At one point, she must have pressed down too hard, because he stopped groaning and yelped in pain. That was his first mistake, making any sort of noise. His second mistake was even worse…he instinctively pushed at the huge finger drilling into his groin, trying to stop the agony. The Tyrant sneered at his pathetic attempts to shove her away, her face darkening ominously. Ambrose knew then that the slave would die, and he was right.

Even as the slave heaved with all his strength, the other fingers curled inward. The Tyrant removed her index finger just as the man disappeared in her titanic fist, her hand silencing his cries and frantic hyperventilating. As if he were a ripe piece of fruit, she squeezed, using her incalculable strength to turn the slave’s body into liquid mush. Blood and what was left of the man’s insides dripped down over her fingers and knuckles, splashing onto her other playthings below. Whatever tranquilizer they were given wasn’t strong enough to overcome the horror of a mashed corpse splattering down onto their heads and shoulders. Quick as deer, they tried to flee, scattering in several directions.

But the giantess simply rolled herself over, her colossal body turning with a deadly grace. The slaves saw her shadow move and then suddenly she was coming down on them, immense and unstoppable. Ambrose cringed as the majority of the men were smashed beneath the tonnage of her breasts, a few arms and legs poking out from beneath the heavy mounds of flesh. Those limbs spasmed violently as their owners were crushed out of existence. The Tyrant growled low in her throat, obviously delighted. She rubbed her chest on the floor, leaving huge scarlet circles on the marble; then she reached out and grabbed the two slaves who had managed to evade her breasts. As she rolled back over, Ambrose was able to see the gruesome remains of her former play toys painted across the yards of her flesh, their broken bodies still twitching.

The two remaining slaves, big, burly specimens who were the epitome of masculinity, were openly weeping as she grinned down at them, her smile filled with bloodlust.

“You shouldn’t have tried to run from me,” she informed them coldly, “Now I’m afraid that I’ll have to kill you both.”

In her hands, the men began to shriek. Ignoring their keening wails, the giantess lowered them past her gore-stained breasts. Still wearing that chilling smile, she dropped one on her lower belly, near the enormous indentation of her navel. The other slave she pressed against her inner thigh, rubbing him up and down while he kicked furiously, hopelessly. His flailing increased a thousand-fold as she dragged him toward the cavern of her pussy, where it was obvious that she was aroused. The giantess’ inner lips were deep red and swollen, clear fluid making them glisten in the candlelight.

When the slave saw his destination, he thrashed in the Tyrant’s hand, trying to squirm away. Just as he managed to free his arms, his handsome face flushed from the effort, the giantess pushed him headfirst into the yawning opening of her sex. The poor man’s legs were still drumming wildly as she forced the rest of him inside of her, holding her palm firmly against the opening to her vagina to prevent him from crawling back out.

On the giant woman’s abdomen, the other slave remained completely motionless, unsure what to do as the Tyrant let out a deafening cry of pleasure. He fell down to his hands and knees when she began to writhe, stimulated by the hapless man suffocating somewhere inside of her sex. Beneath Ambrose’s feet, the floor trembled as the giantess began to buck her hips, her breathing becoming quicker and shallower. The gargantuan eyes rolled in their sockets, burning with such sadism and inhuman lust that Ambrose shuddered. Think of happy things, he told himself as the Tyrant’s unearthly groans reverberated throughout his entire body. Beer and the trip to Jonas’ cabin and…

With a bone-rattling cry, the Tyrant came, her back forming a perfect arch as she thrust her hips in the air. The slave on her belly spilled to the ground, landing with a pained “oomph” sound. She didn’t notice him, too absorbed in the waves of ecstasy tearing through her. When she finally settled back down, her muscles visibly relaxing, she casually reached between her nether lips. The body of the slave that she pulled out was a horrific mess, bloated and bruised and covered with a thick layer of viscous slime. Dropping the corpse with a wet plop, the giantess snatched up the other man.

“I wonder how long you’ll last?” She said to the tiny slave, who gaped up at her. Ambrose winced as the other man was carried down to her womanhood as well. At the last moment, he tried to fight, bucking fiercely in her hand and grabbing for anything within reach. He managed to seize hold of a few strands of her dark pubic hair, as thick as rope to him, but the Tyrant tugged him away. Shrieking, the slave disappeared into the chasm of her sex, pushed deep into her. This time, she didn’t pleasure herself but she just reclined there, seemingly content to have him imprisoned inside her body.

Ambrose waited for her to say something, to bark out some order or another. But she was silent and when he snuck a glance, her eyelids were fluttering. He watched them close and her breathing became slow and steady, an impressive noise considering that her lungs were each the size of a trailer. Thank whatever god was out there that she was asleep. Keeping his gaze on the giantess, Ambrose quietly crept away. He had almost reached the doorway when she spoke, her eyes still closed.

“And where do you think you’re going?”

Ambrose stopped in his tracks, terrified. The Tyrant’s eyes snapped open, focusing almost immediately on him. Panic threatened to overwhelm him as a dozen different possible death scenarios played through his mind. She could crush him like a cockroach or shove him up inside of her, joining the other man as he gradually died in the stifling darkness. 

But her hand didn’t reach for him. Rather, it pointed toward a tall stack of neatly-folded towels.

“Clean me off,” she instructed and he practically sprinted for the towels, grabbing several in his shaking hands. One dropped to the floor but he didn’t take the time to pick it up as he dashed toward the giantess. Ambrose slowed down when he was only a foot or two away from her body, close enough to detect the musky perfume that she wore mingled with the natural scent of her skin. Never before had he been so close to the Tyrant and he was awed, intimidated. She had ordered him to clean her, so he swept the decadently soft towels over her flesh, wiping up the pinkish-maroon clots of viscera from her previous victims. Beneath the towels, he could feel the mighty thrum of her pulse as her heart pumped blood throughout her colossal veins. It was strange to be near something so titanic and yet so obviously alive.

There was an astonishing amount of blood splattered over her breasts and chest and the drenched towels were soon dyed a gruesome crimson color. As he was picking up a few clean ones, the Tyrant spoke unexpectedly.

“What’s your name?” She asked him.

The terror of being directly addressed made it almost impossible for Ambrose to answer. As the colossal woman stared down at him, he struggled to take a breath, feeling as if a giant hand was crushing the air from his lungs. Realizing that a giant hand would actually crush the air from his lungs if he didn’t reply, he stammered, “A-A-Assistant.”

The Tyrant narrowed her eyes, scowling. “Not your position, you idiot. Your name.”

Ambrose couldn’t speak until she shifted her incredible mass toward him slightly. Then he croaked out “Ambrose” in a weirdly distorted voice.

The giantess scrutinized him for what seemed like an eternity before she gestured toward the doorway.

“That’s enough, Assistant. You’re dismissed for now.”

Ambrose was never more relieved to leave.

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