We're not technically on Earth. We're somewhere else. I wish I could be clearer, but I don't quite understand it myself. Somehow Gwen has brought us here for a special evening. She's done some odd things in our time together, and she's gotten me to do some even odder things. Just now I can't remember any of them. In fact, I can't actually remember how we met, how long we've been a couple, or... anything specific. I just know that I love her and she loves me and tonight is meant to be exceptional.
The restaurant is richly but simply decorated. Thick white tablecloths, muted paintings on the walls, a deep soft carpet- all seen only by soft warm candlelight. It's so dim in here that I can't make out many details; the identities of the other diners are rendered not so much hidden as simply unimportant by the faint, flickering illumination.
The hostess is a stunning woman, tall and well-endowed, in a short skirt that shows off her long legs. Her face, framed by tight ringlets of soft black hair, is very familiar. I realize that if she were six inches shorter I'd think she was Gwendolyn. As we pass close to one of the other tables, I see Gwen there as well- an older version of her, perhaps fifty, but still beautiful. That Gwen's companion is impossible to see clearly. He is in shadow. I don't think he's me. Beneath the cooking smells the air here is suffused with Gwen's preferred perfume, something blended from seven flowers. I know there are seven but I can't name them by scent.
Gwen and I follow her statuesque sister through this forest of shaded reflection. Every woman I catch with the corner of my eye is more like than unlike her. Not a single man is more than a shadow. I can accept these things. This isn't the world I know. This is somewhere else.
"Dinner for two," says the hostess. Her voice is just a little deeper than the one I know. I pull Gwen's chair out and she sits, smiling. For a moment my eyes follow the departing hostess, who shoots me a wink over her left shoulder, and then my attention is fully on my girlfriend, my other half, my Gwendolyn.
My Gwen's hair is as black as the hostess's, but it's bobbed, a cut that shows off her slender neck to best effect. My Gwen is wearing a black skirt, pleated, almost like a miscolored tennis skirt. Her sweater is pale red, almost pink, with a high neckline and short sleeves. I'm not sure if she was wearing a jacket when we arrived here; I don't know if I was, either. What season is it here? Where is here, really? This isn't the time to wonder.
The waitress is blonde but could otherwise be Gwen's sister. We both order the steak, both medium rare. There's no salad course, no bread, and when I ask about the wine list both women chuckle at me. Gwen says, "Bring red wine," and the waitress commends her choice. In this not-world I'm not just out of my depth; I'm out of my width and height, too.
While we're waiting for the steaks we make small talk. Mostly she speaks and I listen. I nod and smile as she talks about her latest project, a "Real Simulator." Gradually I recognize that this project is responsible for everything around us. That's how we came to be here. That's how here came to be here, it seems. I mean to ask why my memory is so vague but somehow it never comes up. We're at the center of a little island of light, surrounded by other little islands, all of them too far away to make out the Gwen-likes and Maybe-me's. Sometimes the other tables seem close. Sometimes they seem to be miles away.
The waitress (whose nametag is in a fancy cursive script, hard to read but definitely beginning with a "G") returns, tray held high. She deftly places a plate before Gwen, then comes around the table to deliver mine. As she lowers my steak she leans close to me and I feel her right breast press against my upper left arm, just for a moment. I say nothing and don't make eye contact. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do.
The wine is next, already opened. It's a big bottle with an unfamiliar name. I pour for Gwen, reaching across the little table, then for myself. We start to eat, and other things start to happen as well.
Gwen carves a thin slice from her steak, stabs it with her fork and swishes it in the red fatty juices on her plate. She brings the meat to her lips, tucks it away, and chews with obvious relish. Her pink lipstick is still unmarred; she's a careful eater, not that I can remember anything like that about her. I don't remember our first date or any other. All I know is that I love her.
I love her, and I love a good steak. I know both of these things. So why is this steak giving me so much trouble? It seems as though I've been cutting at it forever and I haven't separated a piece yet. My slice seemed thin at first, but now it's too thick, but at the same time it hasn't changed. I'm holding the knife and fork at the wrong angle, almost reaching up instead of down, and my fingers aren't closing around either utensil as they should.
I lose my grip on the oversized knife and it clatters against my plate, spreading drips of bloody pink across the tabletop. Gwen looks down- DOWN- at me, and shakes her head.
She says, "Too big for you, honey? Let me take care of that."
Gwendolyn leans forward and stabs my steak with her own fork, taking over my failed cut with her own knife. She hardly seems to have to lean. The table, too large for me, is small enough to all be a single place setting for her. As I contemplate this Gwen finishes the cut. She purses her pink lips, looking thoughtfully from the piece of steak to me and back again.
"Let's cut that down," she says, and begins to do so. Her knife is scraping against my plate as she turns my thick slice into four smaller bites. The sound is faint but seems loud- as though it's coming from far away, echoing slightly. I'm looking up at her past the edge of the table, now. My legs are loose in my slacks. My knit shirt is almost billowing around my chest. If I were wearing long sleeves my empty hands would be lost. The collar of my shirt brushes my earlobes.
Gwen pushes her own plate to the side so she can lean a little closer. Her breasts, contained by that soft red sweater, flatten slightly against the table. She has a dreamy expression on her beautiful face, amused at my calm bewilderment. I'm confused and a little frightened, but I know that she loves me. I know that as long as I'm with her, everything will be all right.
I trust her, here more than ever. This isn't our world- it's hers.
Gwen spears one of the little steak pieces with two tines of her fork. She offers it to me, leaning forward even more. I become aware of her body heat, in front of me, beneath the table- her knees are almost touching the front of my chair, bracketing my little bare feet (my boat shoes are empty on the floor below) between them. The table is definitely too small for her, but she seems perfectly comfortable.
I open my mouth, then wider; the closer that slice comes, the larger it seems to be. It's a piece, a chunk, a hunk. I can barely get it between my teeth. Gwen's fork is wider than my whole mouth. A few grains of salt that haven't dissolved yet feel more like sand, too big, too jagged. With all the strength in my jaws, I manage to chew. Once, twice, three times. I swallow a little, which makes it easier, and keep chewing.
Gwen leans back slowly, watches me chew. She sips wine from her glass. Her lipstick is still perfect. Her green eyes never leave me.
After forever I swallow the last bit of steak. Not a single bit of it is caught between my teeth; it's too coarse for that to happen, or rather I'm too fine. I'm not sure how small I am, but when I reach up I can barely touch the table's edge with my fingertips. The heavy linen tablecloth is like a thick rough bedsheet hanging across my legs. I'm full, totally full, but I'd like some of that wine to wash down the steak. I doubt I could handle more than a sip.
I struggle free of my pants and they fall away, joining my shoes. Drawing my arms close to my body, I roll my shoulders, but my shirt doesn't quite release me.
Gwen says, "Let me help you, honey," as though I have a choice. She pushes my plate aside, now, and when she leans forward this time her breasts take up most of the table. It's tiny and I'm tinier. She undoes the second button of my shirt and the loosed neck slides away, revealing me, naked, knee-deep in pale yellow cotton. Gwen nods and raises one thumb, covering my right cheek with it. She rubs, gently. "You had a little juice there," she says.
As Gwen leans back again I wonder how she can possibly be fitting her legs beneath the table now. I look around and see that she can't. At some point she has straightened her legs, straddling my chair like a piece of doll furniture. Her knees are already past and on either side of me, white tablecloth giving way to black skirt-hem giving way to tan nylon over her inner thighs.
I can't see past Gwen or over the back of my chair, but her smooth nyloned legs don't yet cut off as much of my view. I peer left, then right, and I can't see any of the other tables, just dots of flickering light in the darkness. They might as well be stars in a black summer sky. It's just us, now. All the other Gwens, all the shadows- forgotten.
Suddenly it comes to me that it's not just trust. I have total faith in Gwen, it's true, but that's not the only reason I'm not terrified. This is perfect, I realize. This is what I crave. For Gwen this entire night may be just a passing fancy, an experiment if what she said earlier is true... but this is what makes my motor run. In a sense, this is why I exist.
I watch giantess Gwen eat most of her steak in a single delicate bite and wish I could squirm between those pink smiling lips, feel that tongue on my tiny body. I see her breasts, full and stretching her sweater, and I want to spend an hour or a day or a year exploring them like a miniscule mountaineer. Beneath the table there is even more heat, now, and I wish to join that heat and bring her pleasure no matter what the dangers her pussy might hold. Her legs are perfect, her feet ideal, and I want to measure them with myself as the ruler, decorate them with microscopic traces of myself. I could drown in the tears of one beautiful green eye, live in her navel, wrap myself as a ring around one slender finger, map the luscious jungle of her midnight hair.
Perhaps this is what tonight is really all about. Maybe she's teaching me a lesson. Maybe I told her of these desires, and now she's using the "Real Simulator" to bring them to life. Will she crush me with one glorious foot, suffocate me in her snatch, swallow me alive or chew me first? Is this the end for me? I can't remember anything, so how can I guess?
Gwen takes one corner of the tablecloth between her finger and thumb. She asks, "Are you done eating, honey?" but doesn't wait for an answer. With a jerk of her wrist she tugs the tablecloth to one side. Our plates, glasses, silverware and the wine bottle tumble away into the shadows. I hear them bounce and clatter on the thick carpet, but nothing breaks.
She dabs at the corner of her mouth with the tablecloth, just a napkin to her now. There's nothing there to dab at. She's just showing me how large she has become. Gwen drops the napkin/tablecloth and rests her forearms on the table, which creaks and bends from the weight. Not all of the proportions here make sense, not even in this bizarre context, but that seems to be the way she wants it.
Gwen closes one hand around my giant chair, surrounding it entirely with her fingers, and lifts it. She puts the chair down on top of the table. I stand in the center of the seat, insignificant, a mouse to her great tigress. Her breasts are farther above the tabletop than I am; through the stretched woven yarn I can see her nipples, outlined, straining. There's no bra here, nothing but red sweater between me and those vast pink aureolas.
She's larger still, now, though I haven't yet actually seen her grow (or, for that matter, felt myself shrink). Gwendolyn holds the table cupped in her hand, keeping it level. Her other hand reaches down, untucks her sweater from the waistband of her skirt, and pulls it up and sideways. In a moment, without dropping my perch, she has bared her upper body. Her sweater is gathered around her neck and shoulders. Those great shapely breasts are free, so gigantic that her erect nipples are on either side of me, far out of reach, each one as big as the enormous chair.
Gwen moves her hand and almost loses me as the chair slides on the creaking tabletop. Her other hand comes quickly to the rescue, one finger stabilizing the precarious tower, and her breasts quiver from the movement. She brings the table and chair to one nipple, pressing them to it. Her breast-flesh yields slightly, but the furniture is soon cracking and splintering around me like a wooden ship on dangerous rocks. I leap to safety, naked as the day I was born, and roll to an uncertain rest.
Above me, a vast milky pink wall of slightly rough skin. Beyond it, paler pink, almost white, recedes into the distant shadows. I am sitting atop her erect nipple, so small (and she is so large) that I am in no danger of falling. I could take ten steps in any direction and still be safe.
Now the surface beneath me grows less taut, less rigid. I realize that Gwen is no longer aroused. She's getting bored. I shout to her, use every word I know, but she can't hear my voice. I am smaller than a flea, to her, and I seem to be less than an afterthought. I charge to the receding tip of the pinkness and try to get my spreadeagled body across it, hoping I can somehow stimulate her again. It's not that I fear for my life. I'd give that willingly. I just don't want her experiment, whatever it is, to end so early.
Gwen's fingertip draws near, too big and too fast to see clearly, and she cups her hand below her aureola. I fall and land hard, out of breath, somewhere in the field of her warm soft palm. Her other hand is lowering her sweater, tucking it in. She says something, but she's too big- I can't understand the words. I think, at the end, she says "-so large yet."
Gwen keeps her nails short- she's a scientist, after all, and she's always working with delicate equipment- so she manages to pinch me between her forefinger and thumb without slicing me in half. At first I can almost put my hand or my foot- or my raging hard-on- into the grooves of her fingerprints, but soon they're just a looping texture around me. Is she getting smaller, or am I getting larger?
As it turns out, both. As I grow relatively heavier in her grip, she shifts from the pinch to keeping one finger curled around me, then two, then four. Finally she adds her thumb. I reckon that I'm five inches tall on her scale. Around her, the restaurant is back to normal. My chair and our table are gone, but hers is still there- did it grow and shrink along with her? Does it matter? My clothes, too, are long lost. This is not a problem. I won't be needing them.
Gwen leaves the restaurant without paying, which is somehow the strangest thing about this night so far. Maybe I was supposed to pay. She can be old-fashioned sometimes. I can't remember how I remember that. I sigh and hope the waitress can just take my credit card from my pants pocket, because I didn't bring any cash.
Before we walk out the door I catch a few more glimpses of the other tables. At one, a Gwen identical to mine is eating steamed broccoli as her shadowy date shivers in her waterglass. At another, a redheaded Gwen is scowling, livid, almost scarlet in the face; she's tearing something apart with her fingers, and it's not a roll. A teenaged Gwen, cute as a button and looming over her table, crosses her smooth bare legs and accidentally knocks her date unconscious with one sneaker.
Now we're outside. The air is cool, and I'd be cold if her hand didn't keep me warm. It's late but there are lights everywhere. If this is New York, or close to it, it must be late autumn. Gwen's high heels click a regular beat on the sidewalk, nine sharp steps. She stops and waits. The hand clasping me drops to her side. Her thumb rubs me, gently, seemingly without conscious thought. I'm facing her thigh, so all I see is black cotton skirt and giant well-formed fingers, but I hear an engine. Gwen thanks someone and keys jangle, then everything lurches around me as she sits down in the driver's seat of her car.
Is it her car, or my car? Again, and this is becoming tiresome even to me, I can't remember. In any case, it's a luxury sedan and it's very clean. She rests her hand on her left knee, pressing me gently to the nylon-covered skin, and lets me go. This leg isn't moving so I figure the car is an automatic. Gwen brakes suddenly and I slide forward, start to fall; for a moment I manage to cling, stretching her stocking, then I lose my grip and slip down along her shin.
I roll to a stop on the carpeted floor. It's very, very clean- I can't remember seeing a car floor this clean, especially on the driver's side. It must have been detailed today, or perhaps it never existed before the last few minutes? What does "Real Simulator" mean when you think about it?
Gwen's red leather pump makes a creaking sound as she steps on the accelerator. The sound is faint even for me, so small and so close. I lie on my back, head resting on my hands, enjoying the view. When she pushes the pedal, her calf muscle stretches and slides beneath her skin. Her lower right leg shifts smoothly through many slight variations, all of them beautiful. When she moves her foot to the brake pedal, the changes are different but still wonderful to behold. I could stay here for hours and be content.
Gwendolyn flexes her left foot and the shoe pops away from her heel. She twists her toes free and curls then straightens them, enjoying the feeling of new freedom. That foot- longer than I am tall, even without the toes- strokes itself back and forth against the luxurious carpet, coming closer... and closer... and closer to my resting place. I can smell it now, a little sweat but mostly just the odor of her skin. I almost draw my legs up out of the way of her giant toes but stop myself, allowing her to kick me sideways.
Her stockinged foot reaches for me, probes for me, searching... I lie still and watch. Nylon slides against her sole, her ankle, the tiniest movements audible and visible at my shrunken scale. She finds me with the very tip of her big toe, and moves swiftly to cover me entirely. I am trapped, not that I'd ever try to escape. Above me I hear a "click" and the sound and feel of the engine, hardly noticed until now, takes on a mechanical regularity. There's a sound I've heard before, just a few seconds ago, and a second nyloned foot joins the first. Gwen has turned on the cruise control.
Her toes clutch at me, pinning my arms down; one big toe can just reach my head and press against my face. My spine crackles in several places as she forces me to stretch and twist. It feels wonderful and I make a mental note to joke about her getting a chiropractor's license. Now her right foot is pinning me down under her stocking-clad sole, flexing and rubbing her smooth skin and rough nylon against my chest, my thighs, my face, my erect cock.
Gwen's toes close around my head and shoulders and she lifts her foot, moves it to the accelerator pedal. She lays me on the pedal, which vibrates more than the rest of the car. It's linked to the engine. Now she rests her foot atop me, really letting its weight come down on my body for the first time. It's not feather-light but I can still breathe. If she were wearing shoes, especially flats, I'd probably have broken bones now. As it is, there's enough give to her soft soles that I'm merely trapped beyond any hope of escape.
The car seems to be going uphill now; the pedal drops slightly beneath me, giving me a few seconds' respite and a chance to breathe deep. Everything smells like Gwen's foot, including me- nylon and skin and a bit of sweat- it's wonderful. As the hill gets steeper the engine strains a little more. The pedal drops until the only thing touching her sole is the head of my tiny cock. She lowers her foot, just enough, really gently now, and adjusts her position. Now her toes, even the littlest one larger than my head, are curled lightly over my waist and thighs.
Somehow, Gwen catches my erection with the curl of her toes. The pedal drops a little more and at least a quarter of my weight is suspended by my cock, impossible if I weren't so little. Gwen rubs her big toe against her second toe- my tiny cock is between her second and third toes- and the motion surrounds my shaft and balls with her soft skin and slightly loosened stocking. I feel like I'm about to explode, powerless to stop the upwelling of vigor at the center of my body, but the car reaches the top of the hill and the pedal suddenly moves up.
I'm pressed hard to Gwen's toes, my cock wrenched at a weird angle, my chest and face against the back of her foot, my legs spasming to the sides with a painful twist. She doesn't seem to notice. The downslope is over quickly and the pedal evens out, allowing me to straighten myself, but Gwen takes her foot away completely.
I brace myself against the pedal, hands gripping either side, and watch as Gwen massages her right foot with her left. Nyloned toes slide over nyloned instep, ankle, sole, a rough sound to me... she probes and caresses herself, then switches off. Her right foot returns the favor, feeling and stroking, and my erection is more painful now than my legs could ever be. I'd let go of the pedal with one hand and finish myself off, but then I'd fall and delay-
There's a click, somewhere, and the pedal rises to its neutral position. The engine doesn't turn off, though, and the car is still in motion. Gwen's right foot comes up off the carpet; she's turned off the cruise control.
She steps on the accelerator. HARD.
I explode, finally, in an incredible ecstasy- even as my ribs crack and splinter. Her foot lies flat atop me, stomping with all her strength, and I feel blood ooze from my mouth even as semen oozes from my cock. Agony, pleasure, pain, orgasm... and nothing.
No, wait.
Something.
I feel numb, and my body is broken, but I can hear. I can see through the eye that's still in its socket. I can smell my own blood and Gwendolyn's foot, both odors equally strong.
Gwen steps out of the car, leaving me in ragged soggy pieces on the carpeted floor. I can see outside- everything is white now, totally white. She suddenly thinks of something and turns back, leaning in, reaching down... for her shoes.
As Gwen slips her shoes back on, she says, "Okay, remove the car." Now everything is white, everywhere, except her looming form and my tiny remains. I fall about a foot as the car vanishes, but there's no new pain as I bounce on the invisible floor.
Gwen walks away and I struggle to raise my head, taking in her perfect legs, her pleasing ass, her confident posture and steady stride. Her heels click, as they did on the sidewalk that never existed.
She says, "That was fun. Dan's going to love it."
Who's Dan? I'm not Dan. Who am I?
As though she heard me, Gwen pauses at what might be one wall of the strange white room. "Oh, right. Take the simulation boyfriend away, too."
Everything blurs as I hear, "I just have remember not to crush the real Dan. Although if I did, there wouldn't be any evidence..."
The last thing I hear is her laughter, colder than I'd have expected.
Giantess World
