***

Hi Mum,

I hate to admit it, but you were right – again. Less than a year after our wedding, Margaret has left me – just as you predicted. But, in spite of your forecast, not because she’s a half-head taller. She just despised me being away all the time – and claimed that even when I was at home, I spent too much time writing my articles instead of paying enough attention to her. Now, she says, she’s going to find somebody as far from journalism as possible.

But don't you worry, Mum, I've recovered already. Actually, I think she never loved me, only my career prospects, so I'm okay now.

Meanwhile, Nick – you’ve met him at our wedding – takes care of me as much as he can. He’s just invited me to his birthday party next Friday. He came back from Japan not long ago and has plenty of impressions to share, so I guess I'll have a good time and just another good reason to get rid of my recent memories.

Kiss you and Dad.

Yours,

Rob.

***

Hi Mum,

I'm all right, thank you. You don't have to come along, really. Of course, I'd love to see you here in London, but I'm going to be damn busy in the coming weeks and, probably, months. There’s not even a guarantee I'll be in town at all: there’s a fat chance I’ll be traveling to the Middle East. I know, Mum, I know – and I promise to be very careful and take all precautions, including vaccination. You don't need to worry, believe me.

Funny that you remember Nick so well – he was, indeed, the best man. His birthday party was a blast: very good (and warm – so you and Dad wouldn’t like it) Japanese sake, and very good and warm company, including ladies, so I didn't feel abandoned at all.

You'll be surprised, but some of those girls were actually fashion models – not supermodels (not yet), but they have plenty of time ahead of them and all the features needed for building a successful career in the industry.

I think I can hear your question – and here’s the answer: no, Mum, they are not uneducated bitches. In fact, they were charming and very intelligent, no matter what the papers say about the lot (shame on my colleagues!). I hope someday you'll meet one of them in person – and will, just like I, realize that stereotypes are not always trustworthy.

Okay Mum, gotta run.

All the best to both of you,

Rob.

He sealed the envelope and left the café. That was a promise he had given to his mum – to write her at least once a month. He felt relieved. He felt happy. In an hour, he would meet his old and new friends. He was really, really looking forward to it.

--

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Whilst slowly walking up the Strand towards Covent Garden, he busied his mind with reconstructing their first encounter.

It was, indeed, Nick’s birthday party. What Robin didn't tell his mother is that, apart from the sake, there was a waterfall of other spirits, wines, and beers – including the ever-so-fashionable Japanese-made Asahi and Kirin – and that somewhere around midnight, he found himself rather wasted and passionately hugging a girl in addition. They were in the lounge, with twelve or fifteen others, all sitting on a huge, visibly endless, acid-coloured sofa circa 1972. Robin’s subconscious kept ringing an alarm bell – something’s not right, something’s crazy, something’s wrong – yet his intoxicated mind couldn’t be bothered to the point of getting the signal, let alone analyzing it.

The girl's mobile rang; she didn’t turn her head or cease the kiss, just scrabbled inside her bag and pulled the phone out of it. As a journalist, Robin was informed of more or less everything, including the fact that mobiles tended to get smaller day by day, but this one looked particularly tiny. Its unusual size puzzled him, but only for a fraction of a second – and then dissolved in a luxurious cocktail of alcohol and lust. The girl was a great kisser – and, in addition, she had long blonde hair, big blue eyes, a thin waist, and fairly large breasts – just the type he'd always liked. Her features reminded him of Margie. For one fleeting moment, the bitterness returned – it had never left him for good in the first place – yet this time, it was more sweet than sour.

He excused himself and went upstairs: the toilet on the ground floor was engaged. He met her again on his way back, as he was climbing down the stairs to the lounge. She was standing there with a glass of orange (screwdriver?). Gosh, she's pretty, he thought and silently rebuked himself for not remembering her name. He felt grateful when she started talking to him first.

He was amazed: in addition to her striking appearance, she turned out to be intellectual, too. He couldn't understand why he only noticed that now, as the party was already coming to an unavoidable end. But there was a black hole in his mind, with a disturbing sensation in it... But, again, he was too weak to get down to its roots.

It was only several minutes later that he lowered his eyes. Immediately, his jaw hit the floor the girl was standing on. The girl was standing on the floor, and he was not – that’s the point!
Robin rewound his memories back by five or ten minutes. He is coming... yes, he is coming down the stairs... from the first floor... he is seeing her standing in his way... she is intercepting him in the middle...
There: in the middle! Only now did he realize that he hadn’t finished his way down the stairs. He was still standing where she stopped him, several steps away from the floor. Away – which also means above.
The thing that had bugged him became clearer. Her size. Her vertical size.

She bent down to kiss him when they both were seated on the sofa. It was the palm of her hand that made the phone look ridiculously small. It was her height that made him nervous as they were chatting at this very moment. He was looking up at her face, even though he was standing several steps above the bloody floor!
He didn’t know how many steps separated them – he couldn't afford to be inattentive to her words, even for a few seconds that counting the steps would take.

How tall is she?

She must be wearing heels, was his saving thought. He did not dare to look directly at her feet, but it was unlikely that she came to the party on a pair of circus stilts, wasn't it?

How tall is she, for God’s sake?

He couldn't estimate. His only idea was that he'd never met anyone even close to her height. This, however, didn't help. And he just stood there, listening to her, and not hearing. The girl paused. A second ago, she put a verbal question mark – he could judge from the intonation of her voice but would not be capable of recalling the question, even if the destiny of the whole world depended on it.

“I’m sorry?” Robin decided to finally admit his faux pas.

“You weren't listening, were you?” the girl giggled. “Where have you been for the last few minutes, if you don't mind me asking?”

“Um... erm... just how tall are you?”

Robin felt humiliated. Never before had he asked a girl such a direct, sully question. Even his wife. Oh, ex-wife, he corrected himself. Margaret was – well, still is, isn’t she? – some four inches taller than he was, around five-ten, five-eleven. Margie didn’t like to discuss the subject: she considered herself too tall – for him especially – and had been reluctant to emphasize their difference in height in any way.

“Taller than you,” the girl laughed again. “Much taller, I guess.”

“I can see that. The question is exactly how much. You seem to be taller than me, even though you're standing one or two steps lower!”

He couldn't believe his own words. An average step is somewhat eight inches high. If he's right, then 2x8=16. My brain's gonna explode... no, I'll manage... so the difference between us is... sixteen inches. Plus, her eye level is still a couple of inches higher than mine. That means she's around six feet eleven or twelve inches tall... Six-twelve, huh? Well, it actually constitutes seven feet. Seven feet? No way! A foot-high heels, maybe? Do they even make heels that high?

His calculations were abruptly interrupted.

“Well,” the girl smiled. “In fact, you're three steps higher.”

That was too much. Robin gave up and decided to just finish his way down – all the way to the floor.
No rush.

On each step, he would pause and look up at her face. More and more up. And with every step, her face, with those laughing blue eyes, rose higher and higher. It wasn't something he'd experienced before. It wasn’t something he’d expected to experience, ever. And with every step, his head cleared more and more. The situation, however, grew more and more complicated.

Can this be true? No, of course not. There are no women in this world—let alone young and beautiful women right in this room—as unimaginably tall as this slender blond tower in front of him. She must be no shorter than Big Ben—and yet, against all odds, here she is.

Three steps. Three brand-new, utterly incredible dimensions added to his experience. Three new levels of himself next to her.

While they were chattering, he was staring directly at her chin.

Step one. His eyes are level with the girl's chest. He can now see her well-formed breasts without lowering his head, therefore without hesitation. Her bright yellow blouse is tightly stretched, and he could swear these twins make a deep valley between them, only the fabric hides it from his view.

Step two. Her bosom is now higher than his eyes. I wish Margie were here—to see what the expression tall woman really means. She most probably wouldn’t be able to suck this girl's nipples even on her tiptoes. The idea makes Robin excited; he's starting to imagine his wife... his ex-wife... next to this incredible female, and what these two beauties could do to each other... how they could play... He almost faints. His body moves forward, his hand grabs the rail—and makes

Step three.

If he were sober, he'd probably call his newspaper at that very moment and tell the duty editor to save two hundred lines and space for a large photograph on the first page of tomorrow’s edition. Then, he would arrange a photo shoot and an interview with—no doubt about it!—the tallest woman on Earth. He would, of course, publish it under his pen name: he's a respected current affairs reporter, not a tabloid shark... But who knows, he might even consider putting his real name on the interview, which would definitely attract tons of attention from his colleagues and the general public alike. It would be a world exclusive, wouldn’t it? So he might become a real star, not one of the countless well-respected current affairs reporters...

But he wasn't sober, and all those thoughts came and went in the blink of an eye, which was now—after the third step—at the impossible level of the girl's... hips. Hips? Yes—he turned his head left and right—no mistake, hips. Hips, for Christ’s sake!

He looked down. No spikes. No high heels. Just casual shoes with an inch-thick sole. How damn tall is this girl?

His eyes climbed up. A fraction of a second—just enough to have a good look at two legs, each as long as his mother’s whole body, if not longer. Legs whose upper halves are hidden under that navy midi-skirt, with a belt floating as high as the top of his head. The top of his head! No way... just too much rum, and sake, and who knows what else...

He is dying to ask her the question, but to do that, he needs to look her in the eye—and so his gaze continues to move further upward.

Waist now. Not visible under the flowing blouse, but surely thin—very thin for such an immense frame. And higher than his five-feet-six-plus-the-tropical-boots self. My, oh my!

Up, up, where are her eyes? Oh, they’re still a long journey away.

Chest. Well, this chest would certainly be able to comfort a BBW pervert...

The question, I must ask her the question... Which one? Name? Height? No, those can wait.

Is she real?

That's it. Or am I dreaming? But why does my dream take the form of an impossibly tall female? Yes, my wife is... was... whatever—she's fairly tall, and I love... loved... her, but I have never ever contemplated dreaming about a girl the height of Big Ben!

Where are her bloody eyes? An unexpected obstacle: boobs. They obstructed his view, and his arm even moved up instinctively to get rid of the unwanted—or wanted?—later, later, now I’ve got to ask her... Plus, he realizes, the breasts are probably too high for him to touch anyway, even if he tried.

Now what?

She helps him: leans forward, allowing him to see her face—with a grin on it.

“Got lost? No worries, it's okay for a diminutive guy like you!”

“I’m not diminutive! I’m five feet seven—average for a man, so don’t try to insult me! It’s you who’s abnormal here!”

He instantly feels something isn’t right in the way he put it. He fears that he's going to lose the girl right here, right now—and his exclusive interview and his prosperous future as a tabloid superstar are going down the toilet at this very moment.

“Look, erm... I’m sorry... I truly am, I mean it... I beg for your apology. I’m just a little drunk and confused with your... um... um... appearance... Please, please forgive me my inadvertent rudeness.”

His speech is so passionate, she can’t just go away now. What’s her name, what’s her name? Apologies don’t sound too sincere without it...

He tilts his neck even more as she straightens up after his defiant words—and finally, he sees her eyes—and a grin, even if forced, on her lips—way, way up above him. Like the Cheshire Cat on the tree.

She gives up. Lowers herself onto a footstep, holding her glass with both hands.

“I’ve heard a lot about my... abnormality. That hurts, you know. But your apology sounds sincere. Please don’t do it again. Ever.”

He feels it's inappropriate to ask her height again—at least not right now. But the main question sounds less intrusive—and it is more important for him. He sits down beside her. A step higher, in fact.

“Are you for real?”

She turns to him and shrugs her shoulders.

“What do you think?”
If only he knew.

“I’m not sure. I can touch you, I hugged and kissed you half an hour ago or so, I can see your face, your legs, your...” His eyes stop at her breasts. “...your whole body. But you are the most incredible thing that has ever happened to me. It’s strange. You’re so beautiful and so tall, and I can’t say I’m attracted to taller women, maybe...”

He cannot finish. She seals his mouth with her lips.

She is a great kisser. And this time, Robin enjoys the sensation even more: the mysterious bug at the back of his mind is no more.

this be true? No, of course not. There are no women in this world – let alone young and beautiful women right in this room – as unimaginably tall as this slender blond tower in front of him. She must be not shorter than Big Ben – and yet, against all odds, here she is.

Three steps. Three brand new, utterly incredible dimensions added to his experience. Three new levels of himself next to her.

While they were chattering, he was staring directly at her chin.

Step one. His eyes are levelled with the girl's chest. He can now see her well-formed breasts without lowering his head, therefore without hesitation. Her bright yellow blouse is tightly stretched, and he can swear these twins make a deep valley between them, only the fabric hides it away from his view.

Step two. Her bosom's now higher than his eyes. I wish Margie were here – to see what the expression tall woman really means. She most probably wouldn’t be able to suck this girl's nipples even on her tiptoes. The idea makes Robin excited; he's starting to imagining his wife... his ex-wife... next to this incredible female, and what these two beauties could do to each other... how they could play... he almost faints. His body moves forwards, his hand grabs the rail – and makes

Step three.

Should he be sober, he'd probably call his newspaper at that very moment, and tell the duty editor to save two hundred lines and a space for a large photograph on the first page of tomorrow’s edition. Then, he would arrange a photo shoot and an interview with – no doubt about it! – the tallest woman on Earth. He would, of course, publish it under his penname: he's a respected current affairs reporter, not a tabloid shark... But who knows, he would probably even consider putting his real name on the interview, which would definitely attract tons of attention from his colleagues and general public alike. It would be a world exclusive, wouldn’t it? So he might become a real star, not one of the countless well-respected current affairs reporters...

But he wasn't sober, and all those thoughts came and went in a blink of an eye, which was now – after the third step – at the impossible level of the girl's... hips… Hips? Yes – he turned his head left and right – no mistake, hips. Hips, for Christ’s sake!

He looked down. No spikes. No high heels. Just casual shoes on an inch-thick sole. How damn tall is this girl?

His eyes climb up. A fraction of a second – just enough to have a good look on two legs, each as long as his mother’s whole body, if not longer. Legs which upper halves are hidden under that navy midi-skirt, with a belt floating as high as the top of his head. The top of his head! No way... just too much rum, and sake, and who knows what else...

He is dying to ask her the question, but to do that, he needs to look her in the eye – and so his look continues to move further upwards.

Waist now. Not seen under the flowing blouse, but surely thin, very thin for such an immense frame. And higher than his five-feet-six-plus-the-tropical-boots self. My, oh my!

Up, up, where are her eyes? Oh, they’re still a long journey away.

Chest. Well, this chest would certainly be able to comfort a BBW pervert...

The question, I must ask her the question... which one? ...name? ...height? – No, those can wait.

Is she real?

That's it. Or am I dreaming? But why does my dream take a form of an impossibly tall female? Yes, my wife is... was... whatever – she's fairly tall, and I love... loved... her, but I have never ever contemplated of dreaming about a girl the height of Big Ben!

Where are her bloody eyes? An unexpected obstacle: boobs. They obstructed his view, and his arm even moved up instinctively to get rid of unwanted – or wanted? – later, later, now I got to ask her... Plus, he realises, the breasts are probably too high for him to touch anyway, even if he tried.

Now what?

She helps him: leans forward, allowing him to see her face. With a grin on it.

“Got lost? No worries, it's okay for a diminutive guy like you!”

“I'm not diminutive! I'm five feet seven – average for a man, so don't try to insult me! It's you who's abnormal here!”

He instantly feels something isn’t right in the way he put it. Fears that he's going to lose the girl right there right now – and his exclusive interview, and his prosperous future as a tabloid superstar are going down the toilet at this very moment.

“Look, erm... I'm sorry... I truly am, I mean it... I beg for your apology. I'm just a little drunk and confused with your... um... um... appearance... please, please forgive me my inadvertent rudeness.”

His speech is so passionate, she can't just go away now. What’s her name, what’s her name? – apologies don’t sound too sincere without it...

He tilts his neck even more, as she straightens up after his defiant words – and finally, he sees her eyes – and a grin, even if forced, on her lips – way, way up above him. Like the Cheshire Cat on the tree.

She gives up. Lowers herself on a footstep, holds her glass with both hands.

“I've heard a lot about my... abnormality. That hurts, you know. But your apology sounds sincere. Please don't do it again. Ever.”

He feels it's inappropriate to ask her height again – at least not right now. But the main question sounds less intrusive – and it is more important for him. He sits down beside her. A step higher, in fact.

“Are you for real?”

She turns to him and shrugs her shoulders.

“What do think?”

If only he knew.

“I'm not sure. I can touch you, I hugged and kissed you half-hour ago or so, I can see your face, your legs, your...” his eyes stopped at her breasts. “...your whole body. But you are the most incredible thing ever happened to me. It's strange, you're so beautiful, and so tall, and I can’t say I’m attracted to taller women, maybe...”

He cannot finish. She seals his mouth with her lips.

She is a great kisser. And this time, Robin enjoys the sensation even more: the mysterious bug at the back of his mind is no more.

Hi Mum,

I'm very good and miss you, as always. See, I’m even writing to you a week ahead of schedule. How are you? How's Dad? I hope his leg's better. What do the doctors say?

Don't worry about Margie and my feelings towards her: I'm sure that in a year she will’ve become a distant memory to me – no less, no more.

And my Mideast trip has been delayed: my paper thinks that I'll better serve audiences at home, covering glamour events – you know, celebrity stuff, etc. – the reason for that being my interview with one of the models I told you about in one of my previous letters. So, you can load off your mind now and relax in full.

Love you,

Rob.

He phoned her a couple of days after the party.

During the conversation, he was imagining the disappearingly tiny mobile in her hand – and this image alone made him weak. But he pulled himself together and asked her to come up to the newspaper office for a photo shoot prior to the interview.

Unfortunately, he couldn't be there at the time: he was covering a huge rally in Central London. But when he came back, an email was waiting for him, sent by their staff photographer. Apparently, the guy was extremely excited: he wrote to Robin that the girl was “absolutely amazing,” not only because of her height, “which itself is a priceless asset,” but also because of her professionalism: “she should definitely try herself in the fashion industry.”

Then he called her again, and the next afternoon they met at a restaurant for the interview. Robin’s choice of location was determined by his wish to make her feel relaxed in an informal environment so that she could speak openly about different things.

Once at the table, he – off the record – finally asked her full name (it is essential for the story, you know), then her age, and after that – breathlessly – her exact height. He learned that Breta Sorenssen, 26, was born and grew up in Sweden, and that she stood (oh god!) seven feet, eleven and a half inches tall; that (fortunately) she had ceased to grow five or six years ago; that she was a professional model; that she had met Nick in Japan; and that they had some sort of romantic relationship, but it didn't last because, after they came back from Japan, Nick immediately fell in love with her younger sister, who’s still a minor. He also learned that, unlike himself, Nick was a huge fan of tall women – and this fact could have been a reason for him to dump Breta, because while her sister was still marginally shorter than herself, she has yet to stop shooting up.

The interview was an explosion. In full compliance with Robin’s expectations, it provoked a lot of feedback – and even a cash bonus in a sealed brown envelope, signed by his editor-in-chief. But, more importantly, it made him famous. No journalist before him had managed to get an open conversation with an eight-foot-tall beauty (Ms. Sorenssen included), let alone expose her dreams and feelings of being – quite literally – head and shoulders and more above the whole world.

The material was not published as a text-only version. The front page featured a full-height colour picture with a scale superimposed on it – and promised more inside, including a close-up; Breta with members of the public; Breta with a tall man in a business suit (up to her armpits); Breta at the entrance to the underground car park at London’s Park Lane, with the crossbar reading “Headroom 6 ft – 183 cm” right under her breasts.

The latter one was Robin's favourite: somehow, he got an instant turn-on whenever he looked at it – and he would take a look at it every now and then. It was easy for him to imagine himself in the picture, as the crossbar was precisely six inches higher than the top of his head.

Do I have something in common with Nick's fetish? he thought. He didn't know the answer and didn't want to know. He just enjoyed the picture – and Breta's company time after time, when both happened to be in London and had time to spare in each other’s company.

***

Hi Mum, how are you?

My life is better than ever before. I'm well-paid, famous (people even recognize me on the street), and it seems I'm in love again. Yes, that girl from Sweden – your feelings can't be wrong, can they?

She's very nice, very sweet, and unbearably lovely. I'm sure you'll like her at first sight: one just can't resist her charm and aura, believe you me. It's too early to promise, but I'll try to bring her with me next time I come to visit you.

I'm happy to hear that Dad's fully recovered. Pass him my love.

Rob.

--

Their meetings were rare: his job required traveling; her job demanded the same. But both loved to see each other whenever possible.

At first, their dates only took place in her or his flat. Despite his feelings towards her, he found it rather uncomfortable to be seen in public with a stunning blonde three heads taller than him. Even at home, he subconsciously avoided mirrors – he didn’t like to see himself next to a girl whose lovely breasts were a full head higher than the top of his own head. At moments like this, Robin felt like a kid next to a fully grown young woman – and didn’t like the comparison. But he couldn’t help himself; his attraction to Breta was so strong it defied everything else, including his own dislikes.

As time passed, however, he got used to being with her, feeling her unmissable presence, and looking constantly up, way up at her, tilting his neck in order to talk to her, no matter whether she was standing or sitting: even sitting in a chair or on a kitchen stool, she was still taller than he was standing in front of her. The only exception was a deep leather sofa in his flat. When Breta lowered herself onto it, he could come closer and, standing next to her, look her in the eye, or even a little downwards.

He got so used to her tallness that he couldn't imagine any longer having a relationship with somebody shorter. To be entirely honest, he couldn't imagine having a relationship with anybody else – full stop. All those “anybody else” were invariably short in his eyes, much too short, even if in reality, they were taller than he was.

She also grew to love him. Her only complaint was their loneliness. A couple of times, she hinted that it would be nice to go out – anywhere, actually: a disco, a café, a cinema, whatever – and he agreed at last.

***

Hi Mum,
There’s no rush. I will visit you, hopefully sooner rather than later, but right now, work and stuff make the decision too hard to make. I promise to call you as soon as I know when I’ll come along, okay? And yes, I will certainly try to bring Breta with me. But this only makes things more complicated than they already are: she has fashion shows scheduled back-to-back and has not been able to find a window in her diary thus far. But we keep working on it – and will sort it out one way or another.

Take care, and don't be upset: look, the winter is already over!

Kisses,

Rob.

Their first time out was a test of his self-restraint. She wore the lowest shoes possible but still towered over him like a telegraph pole. He knew she was more than thirty inches taller – and everybody who saw them on the streets couldn’t possibly fail to notice that either. They moaned and gasped as Rob and Breta passed them, but she told him it could have been worse if she were on her own.

“At least nobody has yet sked me whether I play basketball, what the weather is like up here, whether I’m able to peek into the first-floor window, compared their heights with mine, or asked me to walk through a door to watch me bend... This is already a huge achievement, believe you me!”

“Do they do all those weird things often?” Robin was stunned to hear that.

“All the time. It's not easy to be the tallest human being on this planet,” she quoted his own words from the article with a smile. “And that picture at the car park entrance – it only seems funny to have those beams at the level of your stomach, but have you ever tried to walk into a door that is lower than your chest?”

He was confused.

“No? Then our next trip will be to a theme park, preferably Legoland,” she giggled. “They have a whole town there, scaled down for little kids. I think we’ll be able to find a door or two for you to try the trick.”

They finished their coffee and got up – the next entry in their plan was a cinema. She suggested the Odeon in Leicester Square.

“They have fairly spacious legroom,” she explained.

This was an unbeatable argument. Frankly speaking, he liked the place too and would choose it as well if only... if only he was alone.

This time, however, it was hell. Every single person in the whole square stared at them. Tourists pointed their cameras at them, and all he could hear was the noise pollution consisting of clicks, and all he could see was a constellation of flashes. Finally, he found a solution. Imagine, he told himself, that Breta and I are movie stars marching down the red carpet. This helped him forget about the gazes and proudly accompany his gorgeous partner through the crowds to the ticket office.

Once they reached the end of the queue, he gestured for her to bend down and whispered: “Shall we think of selling licenses to stare?”

“Why, do you think I'm a circus freak or something?” she pretended to be offended but couldn’t help bursting into laughter a second later. “It might be a good idea, you know. At least we’d make some money out of my unbearable highness.”

“Who told you you’re unbearable?” Breta had already stretched up, and he almost shouted these words to make sure he was heard by her. “You are more than bearable!”

She laughed again.

“I'm glad to hear that, but I doubt you could bear me. I mean, physically.”

“What, lift you?” He liked the game: at least it made him able to shift his attention from those annoying eyes around. “Can your highness wait until we’re back at home?”

They were already at the office window when Robin realized that he had left his wallet at home. He checked his pockets and found only a fiver and some change – not enough to get them in.
“Sorry, Breta, do you have any cash on you? I'll reimburse you as soon as I get hold of my cards.”

She couldn't hear him: she was too high above. She realized he was saying something but couldn't bend this time – they were surrounded by a dense crowd. Therefore, she did something that was purely natural to her, but people around were shocked. She knelt in front of Robin, almost leveling herself with him, and said:

“What?”

He repeated the question.

“Ah, yes, of course,” she said, and stood up again to reach into the pocket of her custom-made jeans. “They take Visa, do they?”

Another bend, this time to the window. This innocent act made the crowd gasp.

The windowsill was up to the average person's mid-chest. For Breta, it was mid-thigh level. She turned back, apologized to those standing behind, took a step backward – and lowered her upper half to the window, keeping her legs straight.

“It’s my usual fitness exercise,” she told him later, explaining why she'd chosen to do that instead of bending her knees.

From afar, the sight could hardly be called normal: the longer-than-life pair of legs in tight blue jeans, then a cute round bottom, or rather an uppom (due to its position above the ground), then an eighty-degree angle, then a pink suede jacket, and finally – slightly lower than the bum – a blond head.

It was so unusual that some guy came to Breta from behind, turned his back toward her, and smiled at his friend's camera with his head at the level of those nice, round buttocks of hers. Luckily, Robin didn't see it: he was busy asking the cashier which row provided the best legroom.

***

Hi Mum, how are you?

My life is better than ever before. I'm well-paid, famous (people even recognize me on the street), and it seems I'm in love again. Yes, that girl from Sweden – your feelings can't be wrong, can they?

She's very nice, very sweet, and unbearably lovely. I'm sure you'll like her at first sight: one just can't resist her charm and aura, believe you me. It's too early to promise, but I'll try to bring her with me next time I come to visit you.

I'm happy to hear that Dad's fully recovered. Pass him my love.

Rob.

--

Their meetings were rare: his job required traveling; her job demanded the same. But both loved to see each other whenever possible.

At first, their dates only took place in her or his flat. Despite his feelings towards her, he found it rather uncomfortable to be seen in public with a stunning blonde three heads taller than him. Even at home, he subconsciously avoided mirrors – he didn’t like to see himself next to a girl whose lovely breasts were a full head higher than the top of his own head. At moments like this, Robin felt like a kid next to a fully grown young woman – and didn’t like the comparison. But he couldn’t help himself; his attraction to Breta was so strong it defied everything else, including his own dislikes.

As time passed, however, he got used to being with her, feeling her unmissable presence, and looking constantly up, way up at her, tilting his neck in order to talk to her, no matter whether she was standing or sitting: even sitting in a chair or on a kitchen stool, she was still taller than he was standing in front of her. The only exception was a deep leather sofa in his flat. When Breta lowered herself onto it, he could come closer and, standing next to her, look her in the eye, or even a little downwards.

He got so used to her tallness that he couldn't imagine any longer having a relationship with somebody shorter. To be entirely honest, he couldn't imagine having a relationship with anybody else – full stop. All those “anybody else” were invariably short in his eyes, much too short, even if in reality, they were taller than he was.

She also grew to love him. Her only complaint was their loneliness. A couple of times, she hinted that it would be nice to go out – anywhere, actually: a disco, a café, a cinema, whatever – and he agreed at last.

***

Hi Mum,
There’s no rush. I will visit you, hopefully sooner rather than later, but right now, work and stuff make the decision too hard to make. I promise to call you as soon as I know when I’ll come along, okay? And yes, I will certainly try to bring Breta with me. But this only makes things more complicated than they already are: she has fashion shows scheduled back-to-back and has not been able to find a window in her diary thus far. But we keep working on it – and will sort it out one way or another.

Take care, and don't be upset: look, the winter is already over!

Kisses,

Rob.

Their first time out was a test of his self-restraint. She wore the lowest shoes possible but still towered over him like a telegraph pole. He knew she was more than thirty inches taller – and everybody who saw them on the streets couldn’t possibly fail to notice that either. They moaned and gasped as Rob and Breta passed them, but she told him it could have been worse if she were on her own.

“At least nobody has yet sked me whether I play basketball, what the weather is like up here, whether I’m able to peek into the first-floor window, compared their heights with mine, or asked me to walk through a door to watch me bend... This is already a huge achievement, believe you me!”

“Do they do all those weird things often?” Robin was stunned to hear that.

“All the time. It's not easy to be the tallest human being on this planet,” she quoted his own words from the article with a smile. “And that picture at the car park entrance – it only seems funny to have those beams at the level of your stomach, but have you ever tried to walk into a door that is lower than your chest?”

He was confused.

“No? Then our next trip will be to a theme park, preferably Legoland,” she giggled. “They have a whole town there, scaled down for little kids. I think we’ll be able to find a door or two for you to try the trick.”

They finished their coffee and got up – the next entry in their plan was a cinema. She suggested the Odeon in Leicester Square.

“They have fairly spacious legroom,” she explained.

This was an unbeatable argument. Frankly speaking, he liked the place too and would choose it as well if only... if only he was alone.

This time, however, it was hell. Every single person in the whole square stared at them. Tourists pointed their cameras at them, and all he could hear was the noise pollution consisting of clicks, and all he could see was a constellation of flashes. Finally, he found a solution. Imagine, he told himself, that Breta and I are movie stars marching down the red carpet. This helped him forget about the gazes and proudly accompany his gorgeous partner through the crowds to the ticket office.

Once they reached the end of the queue, he gestured for her to bend down and whispered: “Shall we think of selling licenses to stare?”

“Why, do you think I'm a circus freak or something?” she pretended to be offended but couldn’t help bursting into laughter a second later. “It might be a good idea, you know. At least we’d make some money out of my unbearable highness.”

“Who told you you’re unbearable?” Breta had already stretched up, and he almost shouted these words to make sure he was heard by her. “You are more than bearable!”

She laughed again.

“I'm glad to hear that, but I doubt you could bear me. I mean, physically.”

“What, lift you?” He liked the game: at least it made him able to shift his attention from those annoying eyes around. “Can your highness wait until we’re back at home?”

They were already at the office window when Robin realized that he had left his wallet at home. He checked his pockets and found only a fiver and some change – not enough to get them in.
“Sorry, Breta, do you have any cash on you? I'll reimburse you as soon as I get hold of my cards.”

She couldn't hear him: she was too high above. She realized he was saying something but couldn't bend this time – they were surrounded by a dense crowd. Therefore, she did something that was purely natural to her, but people around were shocked. She knelt in front of Robin, almost leveling herself with him, and said:

“What?”

He repeated the question.

“Ah, yes, of course,” she said, and stood up again to reach into the pocket of her custom-made jeans. “They take Visa, do they?”

Another bend, this time to the window. This innocent act made the crowd gasp.

The windowsill was up to the average person's mid-chest. For Breta, it was mid-thigh level. She turned back, apologized to those standing behind, took a step backward – and lowered her upper half to the window, keeping her legs straight.

“It’s my usual fitness exercise,” she told him later, explaining why she'd chosen to do that instead of bending her knees.

From afar, the sight could hardly be called normal: the longer-than-life pair of legs in tight blue jeans, then a cute round bottom, or rather an uppom (due to its position above the ground), then an eighty-degree angle, then a pink suede jacket, and finally – slightly lower than the bum – a blond head.

It was so unusual that some guy came to Breta from behind, turned his back toward her, and smiled at his friend's camera with his head at the level of those nice, round buttocks of hers. Luckily, Robin didn't see it: he was busy asking the cashier which row provided the best legroom.

Hi Mum:

Everything's all right, I'm back from Italy, and back to work. The Fashion Week was fun, you should see one someday, probably in London rather than Milan, as it’s much nearer. My girlfriend was working there too – and I swear, she was the prettiest of them all.

Actually it was the first time I saw her work, and if I were her employer, I’d double or even triple her wages right then and there – you can't imagine just how much applause she received, and how much attention from both public and designers alike. They approached her to offer jobs, but she's reluctant to talk about it, as she'd like to stay in London for a while now. And I do hope, one of her reasons for that is yours truly.

Well Mum, I'm in a hurry, as usual, kiss you and Dad,

Yours, R.

It was in Milan that Robin saw Breta in the catwalk heels. He nearly fainted, when she came out, wearing probably the highest spikes he'd ever seen, putting other models hopelessly in a shadow, towering over even the tallest of them by at least two feet. Their pretty faces were as high as her midriff, and their shoulders only made it up to about her groin.

She was drop-dead gorgeous in a very short snow-white wedding dress, which covered only her torso and hips. Her splendid bosom was half-visible through the light, white laces, with a large pink rose on her left breast. A micro-mini revealed the full length of her legs, enveloped in pink stockings. Either of them was long enough to wrap a shorter woman or man from top to toe. Those incredibly long legs of hers, which began at the level of other models' chests, ended in shiny white shoes with stiletto heels seven or eight inches high. Yet, due to her tremendous height, they didn't seem somewhat exaggerated in conjunction with her whole, excitingly feminine, frame.

Robin couldn't help but stared at his lover, as though it were their first encounter. The most thrilling sight was right after the end of the show – when the couturier came out to the podium. It was a prominent Russian designer called Valery Yudashin. A handsome man, with meticulously shaped stubble, he seemed unbelievably short in front of the girls, up to their breasts or shoulders at best. They smiled and laughed, bathing in their triumph – and he walked all the way along the row of models, embracing their waists, and they bent down to give him a kiss, and whispered something into his ear.

As he reached Breta, he stopped with an expression of perplexity on his face that was levelled with her upper thighs. He pecked one of her legs that looked incomparably sexy in those pink stockings, the edge of her skirt touching his head. Then he raised his both arms towards her, as if striving for a hug. Breta grinned, and folded down. Now, with her knees touching the floor, and her bottom resting on her heels, she gave Valery a gentle embrace – and he, on his tiptoes, finally managed to plant a kiss on her cheek.

“I'm sure, tomorrow we'll see this picture in papers all across Europe,” he said to the audience, as Breta easily straightened up again, holding his hand in hers. This way – with his left arm stretching all the way up, and her body slightly bending in waist in order to keep her hand low enough for him – they left the podium, accompanied by a storm of applause.

Hi Mum:

Looks that I'll take a week off in a month or so, and will (hopefully) be able to finally come to visit you and Dad. Apparently, Breta is also free at the time, and – fingers crossed – she’ll join me, if you’re okay with this? She already knows a lot about you – and can't wait to meet you both in person. Is that all right?

Just one thought, though. I must warn you not to overreact at the moment you’re seeing her – she doesn’t necessarily look like your regular girl next door, she's very different in a way, but I'm sure you'll love her. And Dad will too.

Ok Mum, I'll keep you posted.

Take care,

Rob.

He licked the edge of the envelope, and grinned. His father George, a retired army colonel, seemed to have always been attracted to taller women. Robin remembered: he was a child then, and Dad used to argue with Mum quite a lot, as she got jealous watching her husband's eyes follow every female six-footer.

She couldn't forget an incident that’d happened before Rob was even born. His father, then a young and handsome lieutenant, already married though, suddenly fell in love with a legged barmaid from Bristol who stood six feet and two or three inches. He even left his family for her, but came back pretty soon, begging for parole. When asked by Robin's mother why he’d dumped “the whore twice his height,” he said that she turned out to be as clever as timber, and her only interest was shopping. It took a long time for Mum, a petit five-two Sussex girl, to forgive her rebellious husband who, by the way, was not much taller at about five-four.

Rob obviously inherited their less than impressive height, but he never thought that father's fixation on tall women could also be transmitted genetically. His mum, however, wasn't that sure – and she warmed him when he’d met Margie that, due to their difference in height, she might have been not an ideal match for him. Robin only chuckled then, but mothers are never wrong – and his family life didn't last long. For whatever reasons.

And after his trip to Italy Rob started to suspect that his dad's nature has indeed overcome eventually his initial indifference towards women's heights. He found himself enormously excited whenever he saw not just a tall woman, but super-extra-tall woman – his woman, to be perfectly precise, especially in heels. Almost overnight, he suddenly found himself enjoying the odd sensation of smallness next to her, and the word diminutive didn't sound that bad any longer.

For her birthday, he bought her a present – a black silk nightgown, with matching stockings and a suspender belt. Not being able to find the size he needed on high street, even at Long Tally near Baker Street, he spent a little fortune having it custom-made – but the result was totally worth it. When, after a candlelight dinner in a French restaurant, they came to her flat, and she tried the gift on, he asked her to put on her highest heels as well.

“Well, you may be right,” she said, staring at her reflection in a full-length mirror. “My thighs are becoming a little too fat, so let's make them look slimmer.”

When she returned to the room, wearing her eight-inch-high mu­les, Robin's mouth froze open. Never before had he seen anything more sexually tempting. He stood up, came closer to her, embraced her thighs with both his hands, and craned his neck, looking up at her stomach, wrapped in black. As he did, his crotch pushed slightly against her knee, and his chin touched the sleek fabric covering her pubis.

“You're seducing me,” he said.

“Me?” she laughed happily. “I’m not doing a thing!”

Later, when they rested on her double-king size bed, and he tenderly caressed her long, long body, he told her his father's story. Oddly enough, he added, looks like I'm on the same boat.

“I've noticed that already,” responded Breta without a smile.

“But that’s strange, you see. I didn’t give a damn about people’s height before I met you.”

“You told me that,” she stroked his back. “I wish I were a psychologist and knew why you’ve chosen me above thousands of others. Don't get me wrong, I love it, but can you explain why me, a woman who stands almost twice your height?”

“I don't know either. I’ve just been liking you from that very first evening, remember? By the way, at the time I had no clue you were tall. And now... you're different. Not just stunningly beautiful, but clever as hell, and kind, and fun, and ironic... And yes, I also love to feel your height next to me, to look up at you... It's indescribable, I suppose. Consider it a perversion of a sort...”

“Quite common perversion,” she observed absently.

“What do you mean?”

“Almost all men I know tend to melt down when they stand next to me. I’m not brazen enough to think all of them find me sexually attractive, so the only reason must be my height. Even the tallest guys I've seen never miss a chance to compare themselves with me – and get excited when they lose.”

“Who’s the tallest guy you've met?” Robin felt a prick of jealousy.

“Let me think... It’s gotta be an eighteen-year-old American. He stood a touch over seven feet and played college basketball. It was back in Stockholm. I was sixteen then, and almost reached my current height, so he was a head or so shorter. He approached me at my classmate's birthday party, and announced that I was a perfect match for him. I replied that I don’t think so. This didn’t upset him a bit, he just asked me to pose for a picture together, which I agreed. I still have the photo somewhere, by the way.”

She got up, and went to the chest of drawers. It was of a standard size, so she kneeled to reach the midsection. After a short search, she produced a wooden box and brought it to the bed, from which Robin was enjoying the sight of her awesomely shaped figure and gracefulness of her moves. There were dozens old pictures in the box, but she couldn't find the one.

“It doesn't matter,” she finally gave up. “I remember him being really big and absolutely stunned by the fact that his crown only reached up to my neck. On the picture, he gazes up at me with that stupid expression of unbelief – quite funny, you know.”

Robin knew. He knew that his own face looked the same every time he observed Breta's frame from the lowness of his own height.

For some reason, her description aroused him even more. Later he tried to analyse the phenomenon, and concluded that he loved seeing his lover towering over everybody, no matter how short or tall they were. Maybe even the taller the better? Or not?

It would be nice to take a picture of her with a very short person, then with an average man or woman, and then with some very tall guy or girl – to be able to almost scientifically evaluate which of those photographs had the greatest ability to get him excited. He liked the idea so much that he considered sharing it with Breta – and making the experiment happen. Maybe, he thought – only maybe – if it works as supposed, I can write an article or even a thesis on the issue which hasn’t been studied in depth up until now.

He didn't know how Breta would react on his idea, however. She could find it rude, or even insulting, thinking that he’s suggesting turning her into a guinea pig, or something. So, he kept thinking about it – and day by day dug into the issue deeper and deeper. He started researching related materials on the internet and in the local library.

He has learnt that human history had known quite a few giants and giantesses (the word he wouldn't apply to his beautiful girlfriend: he preferred a very tall or extremely tall woman instead), but even among them, Breta was, without a shade of a doubt, one of the tallest – at least when it came to the recorded history. Also, as far as he understood, she was truly unique: despite being eight feet tall, she didn't experience any health problems, at least didn't seem to.

He discovered that his father and, arguably, himself weren't alone in their fetish (again, he preferred not to call that phenomenon a fetish, but couldn't come up with any worthy alternative). Many males and even some females seemed to be attracted to extremely tall women, particularly to their unusually long legs. To make them look even longer, he learnt, many giantesses in the past and present would wear very high heels, and common people loved that somehow. He couldn't argue: he’s learnt it already not only from literature, but from his own experience as well.

One day Breta, who by the time had her own key to his flat, caught him studying height-related material.

“Sorry,” she said, “I didn't mean to breach your privacy.”

“It's all right, my precious,” he said. “You know, I've been thinking a lot about what you've asked me the other night.”

“Which is?”

“Which is, why am I fond of a woman nearly twice my height.”

He kissed the tip of her nose, as she sat down on the carpet next to his chair.

“So?” she asked, intrigued.

“Well, I’ve yet to find the ultimate answer. I started reading this and that, looking for scientific researches here and there – and, to my utter surprise, discovered that the topic is pretty much terra incognita. So I decided to study as many material as possible, and then summarise everything in a serious article. To try and clarify the matter once and for all.”

Breta laughed and kissed him back.

“Be careful, you may dig into this tall women stuff too deeply, and end up at Cambridge or Oxford, as a professor of the height-related psychology studies. But I like the idea. It’d be nice to get my question answered at last. Just make sure I’m the first to read your article when it's ready. All in all,” she giggled, “I'm not the shortest human being in the world, and the height issue plays a prominent – or should I say: notorious? – role in my life. And if you need a help from me, just ask.”

“You said that,” Robin said.

“What? You have something in mind already?”

He thought a second or two – and decided that this was the best time to share his idea with Breta. So, he briefly described the proposed experiment with the comparison images – and waited patiently for her response.

Breta took her time.

“Sounds bizarre,” she finally said, “but interesting, I give you that. But it won’t be easy – to find several people of different heights, who will agree to take part. And, in the meanwhile, why not conduct a similar experiment which will only take you and me?”

“What do you mean?” Robin was puzzled.

“We could try at least two of the positions you suggested: a very tall woman with a normal handsome man, and a very tall woman with a very tall handsome man.”

“How do we do the latter?”

“Well, you are a handsome man of an average height, aren't you?” she smiled and added: “Well, almost average, but who cares about a couple of inches, when only feet count? So, let's take a picture of us, standing next to each other – as we are. And then, if you elevate yourself by a couple of feet, you'll become as tall as that guy I told you about. It'll be fake, of course, but it’ll give you an impression of how I look next to an extremely tall man. The only picture that you can't get this way, is of me with a very short person.” She paused. “Even with my heels on, the required discrepancy won't be achieved, but I'm sure you'll find somebody eventually, will you, my little great scientist?”

Robin found the plan brilliant. And even considered a possible solution to the third comparison. It was not too simple to execute, however, so he didn't share it with Breta just yet. Instead, he found a Dutch shoemaker on the web, specialising on footwear for fetishists, and ordered a pair of boots on platform of the maximum thickness they could offer. Her size, of course. The email stated, they were going to be fifty-one centimetres high, and cost a whopping 660 euro. Though he could afford that: the recently obtained status saw his income soar, so Robin didn't hesitate to entering his credit card details.

***

Hi Mum,

Things are going well; I can't complain. My work is fine—you
can judge for yourself. Just go to the corner shop and buy a copy of the paper
I work for. I've already received quite a few interesting proposals, one of
them being to head a department in a brand-new BBC TV channel aimed at youth.
It covers celebrities, but they don’t offer a terribly competitive salary, so
whereas months ago I would’ve grabbed the opportunity without thinking twice,
now I’ve got a range of rather good proposals to choose from.

Our visit to you will definitely happen—the question is
when, not if—so I can only advise you to keep the oven warm.

And don't be afraid, please: she's not unpleasant in any
way! You interpreted my words correctly—she is kind of tall—but, unlike
Margaret, not fixated on her physical appearance, and is a lovely companion in
any conversation. And she plays bridge, too, so you're going to find a new
partner pretty soon, even if temporarily.

Okay, Mum, I'm really looking forward to seeing you and Dad.

Kiss you both,

Rob.

The parcel arrived on time. That afternoon, they were making
comparison shots in Robin's new, more spacious flat. When the bell rang, he was
busy with the camera and lights and asked Breta to answer the door. Needless to
say, the delivery man had the shock of his life, seeing the elongated hourglass
of a female figure, which could only be seen up to her shoulders through the
seven-foot-high doorframe.

She bent down, and he saw her beautiful face. Then she
smiled and asked how she could help. He just stood there, frozen in awe, having
completely forgotten the purpose of the visit. After almost a minute, he came
back to reality, apologised, and handed her a huge box wrapped in plastic. She
thanked him, left her signature where required, smiled down at him one more
time, and shut the door.

“They won't believe me,” thought the guy, imagining how he
would return to the mail depot and share this impossible sight with his
co-workers. “I wish I’d asked her for a photograph with me by her side... no,
it was just a ghost; it wouldn’t manifest itself on film anyway.”

Breta grabbed the scissors, cut the plastic open, and saw
the logo: Jelly Shoes.

“Have you ordered anything from Jelly Shoes, my dear?” she
asked.

“Yes, I have. Well done to them—the delivery turned out to
be precisely as announced. You can open the box, my dear, if you will.”

“Well, well, getting tired of climbing the chairs, you
decided to spend a fortune on elevator shoes,” she chuckled as she pulled them
out of the box. “Wow, I've never seen anything like this before! You’ve got to
be careful—if you fall from them, you're likely to break your leg!”

“They’re not for me,” he said, still dealing with the slave
flash and not yet seeing the boots. “They’re for you. I mean, I thought they
could help us imitate the ‘handsome dwarf next to a very tall woman’
comparison.”

He finished the job and turned to her.

“What do you thin... Oh my, they are huge! I mean, they did
state the height in centimetres on the website, and I thought the soles were
going to be high, but... Ah, anyway, what do you think?”

Breta, who had been smiling broadly ever since she shut the
door after the delivery guy, burst out laughing.

“For me? Seriously? These monsters are for me? It took me
three weeks to get used to eight inches—and these are closer to two feet, I
guess!”

“But you don't have to catwalk in them.”

“This rule applies everywhere, podium or no podium,
correct?” Her blue eyes were shining, and her smile was playful. “If you
promise that you won't ask me to use them anywhere but here, I might try to put
them on. But I can't guarantee I'll succeed.”

“Alright, dear, I do!”

The very sight of those boots sitting on the floor next to
his beloved somehow made Robin aroused. He couldn’t wait for what would follow.

“Okay then, don’t you enter the bedroom unless I call for
medical assistance!”

She grabbed the box, kissed Robin’s cheek, and went
upstairs, singing I'm Going Slightly Mad.

The photography stuff had finally been fixed and tested, and Robin opened the email from Jelly’s, copy-pasted the “51 centimetres” excerpt into the browser – and immediately got the result: “20.0787402 inches.” His mobile rang: Breta. She informed him that the first stage of Operation The Highest Madness had gone smoothly.

“You may come in,” she added.

Climbing up the stairs, Robin’s heart was pounding. He was about to see something completely out of this world – an eight-foot-tall girl in almost two-foot-high platform boots. Was he the first man ever to see a real-life nine-foot-eight-inch-tall woman? According to his research, he was indeed. He thought it was good he was wearing jeans instead of shorts or trousers made of soft fabrics – and knocked on the door.

Nothing unusual. She was seated on the bed with her legs towards the window, so all he could see was her sharp knees above the duvet and her beautiful face wearing a smile. The smile was, however, enigmatic and, perhaps, promising.

“Well, well, you didn’t need any assistance from anybody, including paramedics... How do you feel right now?”

“Don’t know yet: I was sitting down while putting them on.”

“Time to stand up then?”

“Okay, but close your eyes, please,” she was still smiling. “I’d rather not see you watch me fall down. It wouldn’t be a pleasant sight, believe me.”

“Watching anybody fall down is not a very pleasant sight, I’m afraid.”

“Yes, but anybody doesn’t normally fall down from heights like these,” and she showed him the tip of her tongue.

“You’re right, I guess. But in that case, you might need my help, huh!”

“I’ve got the bed to land on, should things go wrong. Besides,” she never failed to tease him a little, “I don’t think your strength is sufficient to catch my weight falling from heights like this.”

“You don’t think so?” He observed his own shoulders and arms as if evaluating his muscles and then gave up:

“Alright, alright, convinced.”

Robin shut his eyes and heard the bed squeak, then a gasp, a moment of silence, then a soft step in his direction. And another one. Then Breta’s voice from above:

“Stage two completed, Sir. You may now open your eyes.”

He thought he was prepared. He proved himself wrong. He only realized that when she stepped out from behind the bed and slowly, very slowly, leaning against the wall for balance, came closer.

At the first instance, all he could see were her knees. The reason for that was simple: they were still the same – nice, sharp, and magnetic, but those knees of hers were now just a little below his eye level. Actually, they were as high as his shoulders, if not higher.

This was way beyond his wildest expectations. Or preparations.

After a while, having regained his ability to think, he concluded that all other experiments they’d planned would be a waste of time. He already knew he was turned on beyond limits, like never before. In sexual terms, he couldn’t be more excited. Once again, he thanked himself for wearing jeans. This time, however, he wasn’t sure the fabric was strong enough to hide his desire.

He decided not to describe this finding to Breta just yet: science is science, let the research keep its pace.

Maybe all those thoughts were provoked by his wish to extend the moment, maybe not, but at some point, he realized the need to say something – and couldn’t open his mouth. Or, rather, he couldn’t shut it, as his jaw hung open, and he didn’t know how to pull it back.

Slowly, his gaze started to climb up. Breta’s legs were wrapped in those same pink stockings that ended just above the middle of her thighs. That meant at the level of his forehead. Ever since he’d met her, there had been plenty of instances where he couldn’t believe his eyes. This was one of them. The one, in fact.

A couple of inches higher was the lower edge of one of the shortest minis she owned. Now, for the first time, it failed to hide her underwear from his view. It was truly incredible to look up at a girl’s knickers while standing next to her. And up at the lower edge of her skirt.

He tried to look further up – no use: the skirt obstructed the view. He took a step back; she took a step forward.

“Like what you see?”

Her voice reached him as if from heaven. She must have been fond of the game: her grin was easily heard.

“I... I think so, yes. You?”

“I... I think so, yes,” she echoed. “It’s unusual... Very strange, you know... The ceiling is too close...”

Of course it was. When Robin was looking for a new home, he paid extra attention to a feature he’d never considered that important before: how high the ceilings were. In this flat, it was ten feet, more than enough for any normal person. Or even a tall person. Or even a very tall person. But not for Breta – not right now, at least. Standing nine-eight, she would only need to raise her hand a tiny little bit to touch the ceiling that would stay out of his reach, even if he climbed on the dining table.

He took another step back and, with his neck tilted all the way, finally managed to see her breasts. They were unbelievably high, but even higher soaring was her face, which he still couldn’t see – this time because of that lovely mile-high bosom of hers.

“Hello, love, could you look down, please?”

He decided to be a good boy, hoping that a reward for his exemplary behavior would follow soon.

“Why?”

Her face nevertheless showed up. And up it was: from his perspective, her hair seemed to be brushing against the ten-foot-high ceiling. It was like the sun coming out of a cloud.

“Oh my, you’re sooo small,” she giggled, but soon returned to business. “Does our experiment require you to be seeing my face? I thought it would be enough for you to observe my legs and the rest of my body – at least those parts you can see, haha – and to draw your conclusions in an impersonal manner, would it not?”

“Well, not quite like this.” Honestly, he had no clue what the experiment required, and he knew even less what should be done now. “I guess your face plays an important role in our research...”

“Does it? As far as I understand, you’re establishing what impact women’s height has on men’s attraction towards them, right? The face shouldn’t really matter, I suppose.”

“Okay, maybe you’re right, but you know I love to see your face. And never before have I seen it from such an angle!”

“This is fair enough,” Breta laughed again. “I love your face too, but, must confess, it’s hardly seen from up here.”

“What are you seeing then?”

“Well... Have you ever seen a five-year-old boy standing in front of you? I think it’s pretty close to what I’m seeing now.” Her head disappeared again from his field of view. Then came back. “Ah, it’s wrong, you know.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Well, I guess an average five-year-old should stand about two feet three or close to it. In this case, he would come up to your hips, right?” She paused, then looked down at Robin, and put her hand on his head. “While you don’t even come up to my crotch – you really don’t, my little love, do you? Therefore, it’s rather like you would look down on a two- or three-year-old kid... Can you imagine this?”

He tried – and failed. Could it be that way? Could a fully-grown man, a man in his thirties, a well-respected member of society, a successful journalist in addition, look like a two-year-old boy next to his much younger girlfriend? Isn’t it weird? Is this for real?

“No, I can’t,” he confessed at last. “Let’s take a look at the mirror.”

They moved to the wardrobe with sliding doors covered by mirrors on their outer side. The combined area of the looking glass was huge and very wide – wall to wall – but not high enough. Robin could see himself, with that familiar silly look on his face, standing next to two endless poles, three-quarters of which were covered in pink. And that was it. The highest point he could observe in the mirror was her belly button. The wardrobe was nearly seven feet high. Still, the sight was breathtakingly amusing. And sexy.

He touched one of the poles, but quickly withdrew his hand, afraid of an uncontrolled explosion in his pants.

“I can’t see anything except my legs,” said Breta disappointedly. “And you – right beside them. It’s not quite what I expected. Shall we go downstairs?”

He agreed: time to get back to business.

As they moved towards the stairs, Robin let Breta go first through the bedroom’s door. It was a purely instinctive gesture of genuine politeness, but she stopped, smiled down at him, and said:

“Want to see me crouch, my little gentleman? Here you are!”

All internal doorframes in the flat were a foot and a half higher than the standard ones: he had taken good care of that in advance. Now, however, even this super-high frame was not high enough. To walk through it, Breta firstly gave Robin her hand for support, and secondly made a three-point bend: knees, waist, neck.

It was something any tall woman lover would kill to see. From what he’d read on the topic, Robin knew that, to them, witnessing the subject of their interest duck through the door was one of the most desirable sights. Another one was to stand on something relatively high and still not be able to look her straight in the eyes. Why is that, he wondered. He didn’t know the answer, but was keen to find out. This, as a matter of fact, was the prime reason for the whole experiment.

His psychological deliberations were interrupted by Breta, who had already reached the bottom of the stairway.

“Stop!” she commanded.

He stopped.

“What?”

“I just remembered our conversation that very first night. Remember, when you wrongly assumed there were two steps between us? I want to see how many steps you’ll need to go up to become the same height as I am right now.”

This means, he thought, she’s either genuinely interested in his research or just having fun—not less than he is. He couldn’t decide which idea he liked more, then he thought there’s a good chance of having the two combined in a mysterious mix, and then he nodded to her.

She was standing on the floor beside the stairs, holding the rail. He slowly stepped down, then again—and again, until their eyes nearly leveled. And, just like back then, he was intentionally delaying the pleasure, and didn’t look down or count his steps, preferring the figure to remain unknown for a while.

“Don’t you fancy giving me a hug at last?” Breta asked.

Her head was just an inch lower than his, and he embraced her and kissed her on the lips.

“Enjoying looking down at me?” Her eyes were shining as she returned the kiss.

“I am, but only this way!” He couldn’t hide his excitement any longer. “You know, it felt so surreal yet so unbelievably sexy to look up at your knickers!”

“Did it? Afraid I’ll never be able to gain an experience like that—it’d take a woman more than five meters in height.”

“You mean a woman twice your height? Like sixteen feet?”

“Can you imagine her? You’d be up to her knees.”

“Oh, don’t exaggerate!”

“Do you think I am? You were not much higher up against me just minutes ago, remember? Okay, I’m in huge platform boots, but she’s twice my height, right? I guess it’d take a spyglass for you to see her knickers,” she chuckled.

Robin liked the game Breta played, yet felt somewhat uneasy. He didn’t really know how to respond without giving away his overexcitement about the matter, which, he suspected, might cause a jealousy attack—the last thing he would wish.

“So,” Breta lightly pinched his arm. “How would you react to encountering that woman?”

“What woman?” Robin pretended to have floated away with his thoughts in an attempt to win some extra time and think through the best way out of the situation.

“The sixteen-foot-tall one.”

“Ah. Erm... I don’t know... I can’t really imagine anybody that big...”

“You don’t know? I’ll tell you! You’d die right there, right then,” she laughed again. “Oh no, you’re dying right now, just picturing her in your imagination!”

“No, I’m not,” he wasn’t sure he could even convince himself.

“Yes, you are,” Breta pulled him closer. “Don’t worry, I won’t let you fall. And I’ll fight that bloody giantess for my little one, even though I know you’d dump me for her straight away.”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“Yes, you would.” She wasn’t smiling as she said that. “Happily, though, she doesn’t exist. At least not that we know. So, throw this freaking freak of nature out of your mind at once, and come back! You have me—and I believe I’m tall enough to qualify for your love.”

“You are, my dear, you’re more than tall enough—you’re absolutely unbeatable in every way!”

This time Robin knew he was telling the truth. He really loved her, and no force in the Universe, no matter how tall that female force would be, could take him from her.

They stood like that for some time, embracing each other, caressing each other’s heads. Then Breta said:

“Must confess, I would like to share your experience of looking so much up at another person, if I’m honest. To find out about your feelings.”

She tilted her neck up and raised one arm, as if to reach somebody much taller than she was.

“Is it this tall that she would stand?”

“Oh, I don’t know, seriously.”

“Let me see… I’m about two hundred and ninety centimeters right now, am I? How high would you say my hand extends upwards beyond the top of my head?”

“Wow, you’re really getting into that scientific research, are you?” Robin laughed and looked closely at Breta’s limb. “I’d say about thirty inches.”

“Inches, inches! Metrics is easier to deal with, you silly,” she patted him with her other hand. “So it’s like seventy-five centimeters, right?”

“If you say so.”

“I do, haha. Well, my reach then goes up to three hundred and sixty-five...”

“Twelve feet,” Robin entered the numbers into the mobile conversion app. “Almost precisely.”

“Oh no! Four feet lower than she is tall… Is it up to her tits then? Or even lower—belly? Can you imagine this, Rob?”

He stared up at the tips of her fingers.

“Uhm… No, I can’t.”

“I can’t either. Me! One of the tallest human beings on Earth! Wearing these unbelievably high shoes! Reaching up! Yet only touching another woman’s belly? No!”

“No,” he agreed momentarily, afraid that he wouldn’t be able to hold it much longer. “No.”

“So, it’s impossible for me to get under your skin?” Finally, Breta lowered her arm. “Understand your feelings?”

“Breta, sweetie, you’ll never understand them. I can only hope I will one day.”

“If you do, you’ll get a cathedra at Oxford, remember?” At last, she laughed and kissed him passionately. “I’ve no doubt you can achieve it, my clever little scientist!”

“Not so little right now,” he playfully looked down at her. “And not so clever either—not enough to guesstimate how many steps separate us, anyway.”

“What’s the problem? Just count them.”

“I cannot.”

“Why can’t you? Look down!”

“I’m afraid of heights, you know.”

“In this case, you must be scared to death of my not-so-humble self,” she giggled. “You don’t have a chance to find a height any higher—we just discovered that scientifically. So don’t play fool and start counting. I hope you’re as good in arithmetic as you are in journalism, and can cope with numbers greater than five.”

“As long as it’s no more than ten, I’ll manage!” he promised and lowered his head.

One, two, and three he accepted relatively easily. Four didn’t cause a big surprise, either. Two feet and eight inches’ difference, he thought—that’s something I’m already used to.

The five was tougher to comprehend.

The six made him feel a little sick—the difference increased to forty-eight inches. Four feet exactly.

The seven. He suspected that he might have been confused—and began from scratch. No, no mistake here. Seven steps up the stairs—and there he was, three or four inches taller than his gorgeous girlfriend. Seven steps down—and again, all he could see without tilting his neck were her knees.

He hugged them, pulled them together—not without Breta’s assistance, of course—leaned on them, and kissed them. He loved them, he was full of desire, and he would give anything to stand like this forever, to feel this unexplainable tenderness and erotic excitement. This was unlike anything he’d experienced in his life. Ever. And this was a wonderful sensation.

Her hand touched his hair, stroking it.

“Back to business?”

“Yeah, I think it’s about time.” Reluctantly, he pulled away. “The camera’s ready.”

It wasn’t easy for Breta to walk into the sitting room on those platforms, but he gave her his helping hand—up, always up.

“Waiting for your command, Sir!” reported Breta. “I would assume, if I may, the operation ‘Highest Madness’ is coming to its final stage?”

“Looks like that.” He came up to the camera and leaned to the viewfinder. “You’re not fitting into the frame, sweetie. Take a couple of steps back, please.”

Now the picture was perfect. He set the ten-second delay, approached Breta, and stood by her, with his hand on her left thigh, at the level of his face. The flashes flashed; the camera clicked.

“A couple more—just in case, all right?” he came back to the tripod.

“Let’s vary them,” suggested Breta. “Don’t you want to stand under my pins? I suppose there’s enough legroom—hahaha!—for you down there. And you’ll get a unique picture: a handsome, nearly average-sized man standing underneath a pretty woman’s groin. I bet this will be a new experience for you.”

“Only for me? What about you? Have you ever had a man standing between your thighs?”

“You won’t believe me if I tell you how many bizarre cases I’ve lived through with shorter men!” she laughed but said nothing more. “Are you coming?”

“Pretty close to,” this time it was he who was smiling. “Having been for a while now.”

“Hold it a little longer, please,” she laughed and spread her legs apart a little, and he walked into the arch he could’ve never imagined being in. He decided to give his hands a rest and embraced her knees.

No need to rush, he thought—we’ve got a whole night ahead to play. The photo shoot was done, but he was still standing there, admiring his goddess and worshipping her from underneath her. He craned his neck and saw her knickers—was there a tiny wet spot on them? Was it what he thought it was?

“Do you want me?” he asked.

“Yeah, baby, yeah,” she wasn’t laughing this time. “I did this before with a stranger… on his request… But, despite his hair actually touching me down there, unlike yours right now, I didn’t want him. And now, just sensing you’re looking up at me, I’m horny as hell. How would you prefer to be raped? Should I get rid of the boots beforehand?”

“I’d like you to stay as you are. And I even have an idea. Do you think these lovely legs of yours are able to keep some extra weight?”

“If you mean yourself, then easily. I’m a fashion model, after all, meaning I hit the gym regularly and am overall fit. What’s the idea?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he rose on his tiptoes, put his hands on her hips, embraced her shins with his own legs, and pulled himself up. Just like a monkey between two tree trunks, he thought.

She was standing still, wondering what was coming next.

“Are you gonna climb all the way up to me? The distance will take you ages.”

He didn’t answer again—he was too busy. Pulling himself a little higher, relocating his legs, he finally reached the destination. His nose managed to move the string of her knickers aside, and his tongue found the target.

A moan from above and a tremble of her body returned him to reality. And what a reality it was—he was eating a girl, while suspended between the girl’s legs.

Could it be for real? Did it really matter?

***

Hi Mum:

A piece of good news: we're coming next Friday. Unfortunately, though, we can't stay long; we'll have to leave on Sunday afternoon, but we'll spend two days and nights with you – isn't that fantastic!

Don't ask too much about Breta; be patient and wait until you meet her yourself – it's very soon now.

Thank you for the invite, and do pass my best to Dad.

See you soon,

Rob.

They were sitting on a futon, drinking wine, talking. Both barefoot, both exhausted after the most incredible sex.

They had already taken showers. Robin's jeans were good at hiding his turn-on, but they were unable to delay his ejaculation. Three of them, in fact. He didn't regret a thing – least of all the jeans themselves. He was happy as a fish. They decided to continue shooting tomorrow and dedicate this night to love, more love, and nothing but love.

“It's a shame your new boots are not waterproof,” he said.

What? Why? Are we going fishing?”

“I'd like to take a shower with you wearing them.”

“Well, then even at its highest point, the showerhead would only be able to wash what I needed to wash most,” she giggled and stood up to fetch a snack from the fridge. And he stood up too – just to hug her from behind.

She seemed very short to him without the Jellys; he could now easily kiss her buttocks through the fabric of her superfine silk gown, the only garment she had on. She turned around, put her arms on his shoulders, pulled him closer, and held him tight.

“Do you think your parents will like me? I'm a bit anxious.”

“Why?”

He knew the answer; he just didn't want her to move anywhere.

“You know why. If your mum didn't like your wife...”

“Ex-wife.”

“Ex-wife. If she didn’t like her because she was half a head taller than you, can you imagine her reaction when she meets a woman who's three heads taller than your ex?”

“I'm sure she'll love you. Her attitude towards Margaret had nothing to do with her height; she was just too selfish, too egocentric. Don't worry, my love, we’ll be cool, I promise.”

He rose on tiptoes, reaching for her breast with his hand to give it a tiny, tender stroke. She bent a little so that he could do it. She smiled.

“Thank you, baby.”

And then she lowered down, kissed his hair, took him under his armpits, and straightened up with him in her hands. Then she kissed him again, this time on the lips, put him on her hip, and walked into the kitchen, ducking under the crossbar.

“Time to have something to eat, my little one.”

***

Hi Mum:

I know this letter is out of schedule, but don't worry, nothing's wrong. I would just like you to keep this one secret, okay? The matter is Breta is somewhat different... I already told you she's not a usual girl, and in fact, she's very unusual... in a way.

She's absolutely adorable, and I'm sure you'll find her lovely, but I'm also sure you'll be surprised by her appearance. I don't ask you not to be – this, perhaps, would be impossible to execute – but please, could you at least try not to make it too obvious?

Thank you and take care. Kiss you both.

Yours,

Rob.

He didn't mind when she lifted him and carried him a little. Although initially, it felt awkward to him, quite soon he grew to like it. Enjoy it, actually. Breta showed great respect for his ego and never did things like this in public. He also liked her calling him little: compared to her, he was little after all – and who wouldn’t be? Especially when she put those huge boots on – it didn’t happen terribly often, but she came to like them much more than either of them could’ve thought. Still, Breta wore the monsters only in Robin's place; her own flat had lower ceilings.

He hired builders and erected a huge mirror in the master bedroom on the ground floor. It was not as wide as the one upstairs but stretched all the way from floor to ceiling – all ten feet of it. Now they could play in front of the mirror, which was capable of accommodating Breta's immense height even with the Jellys on.

That mirror provided Robin with the second shock. The first one came from the film, after he processed it and printed it. He did it himself; he couldn’t trust the job to anybody else even in his own office, let alone in a high street shop: he considered pictures that were supposed to illustrate the “Breta vs. Dwarf” comparison too private.

When those were taken, neither Breta nor Robin was able to see their full reflection in the mirror – her observation point was too high, his too low. The camera, however, captured them impartially from the right angle. In the picture, his head happened to be even lower at her thigh than he’d previously thought. And her waist, breasts, shoulders, and especially head were so high, he skipped a breath looking at the photographs for the first time.

Breta, when he showed her the pictures, just laughed.

“I knew I was a giantess next to you, but I didn’t imagine exactly how giant I was! It's too funny, you know. You look so small here – look, your chin is just a couple of inches higher than my knee! Your chin – my knee, can you imagine that! Come here, gimme a hug, my knee-high lover!”

Now, thanks to the mirror, they could enjoy the view every time she put the Jellys on. And the view never failed to stun them both – time after time after time. They explored new poses; they even invented one, where Robin was suspended upside down, his feet on Breta’s shoulders. During this impromptu experiment, she supported his body in this very odd position while he satisfied her with his tongue. She liked it so much, she came sooner than usual – luckily for him, because, after all, he wasn't a bat and couldn't hold it for too long.

And it didn't take long for him to explode, either: she never forgot to please her little lover, steadily moving his body up and down against her own – and those gentle frictions of his manhood against her breasts and midriff made him moan with pleasure, upside down or not.

So, the full-length mirror was the second shock. But not the last one.

For Saturday, they’d planned a little celebration: it was exactly three months since their acquaintance. He booked a table at a fine restaurant, and at 7 o'clock sharp stood on the porch of Breta's house. He pressed the button and, seeing a long, tall figure through the semi-transparent door, hid the bouquet behind his back, tilted his neck up, and closed his eyes, waiting for a sweet kiss that would inevitably follow.

The door opened, but instead of a kiss, he heard a voice:

“You must be Robin?”

He opened his eyes. In the doorframe, shining down at him, stood a blonde resembling Breta a lot, but slightly younger and without Breta's lovely bosom.

It was her little sister – he'd seen her photographs. But even without them, there couldn’t be any doubt: who else could be this beautiful blue-eyed blonde, towering head and shoulders above the door?

“And you must be Kristina? Nice to meet you at last. I didn't know you were coming.”

“Breta didn't also,” her English, though certainly not as good as her sister's, wasn't terribly bad either. She stepped aside invitingly. “Come in.”

He walked in, looking up at the childishly shy smile blossoming above.

“We find cheap tickets for the airplane on the internet and did a big surprise for Breta,” explained the girl. “Nick coming soon, but father stay at home: he busy on job. But mama is here.”

In the living room, a woman half-sat at the table. She gave him a big smile and stood up. She was in her forties, very good-looking – the same blonde hair and blue eyes, if only a little faded – yet, surprisingly, she wasn't that tall, only up to her younger daughter’s shoulders. Kristina said something in Swedish; he picked two words: “mamma” and “Robin” – and the woman extended her hand.

“Astrid.”

“Mamma don't know English,” said the girl.

He nodded, named himself, and grabbed her hand.

Now, as he stood right in front of her, he realized that his first impression was wrong. She was tall. Very tall, in fact, six feet seven or eight inches easily – he struggled not to stare directly at her breasts. The excuse for his first impression was right there, standing next to Astrid, towering over her. Besides, mum was obviously much smaller than Breta – and Robin’s judgment of what is tall and what is not was strongly biased because of his girlfriend's stature.

“Nice to meet you, Astrid. You know, it's exactly three months today that I've met your lovely daughter, and we are going to celebrate the anniversary. I’m pleased to ask you to join us.”

As Kristina translated his short speech, he thought that getting her to the restaurant might become an issue: she was a teenager, as far as he remembered. He asked her whether she thought it might become a problem – and received a good laugh instead of an answer.

“I went to bars when I was eleven years old,” she said proudly. “No drinks, I like dance. But don't say this to mamma.”

She was still giggling when Breta came in.

“Hello, my dear,” she automatically lowered herself to his level and kissed him. “Oh, thank you, what a wonderful bouquet! And I see, you’ve already met mum and Krista?”

“Yeah, and I invited them to join us, but don't you think Kristina is a bit too young for that?”

“No, she's a good girl and behaves. And if you're worried about her proof of age, I can assure you, she won't need it.” She stood next to the sister. “Look, she's only a shade shorter than I am, and I don't remember being asked for an ID in restaurants for ages.”

She was right – the top of Kristina's head came up to Breta's nose – and, all of a sudden, he thought that he was going to be the shortest one in the company. No, that wasn't entirely correct: he was going to be completely dwarfed by the three tall women! He found the idea amusing and tried to calculate their combined height – it must have been more than twenty-two feet. Four and a half times more than his own five-six! This is what diminutive really means, he grinned.

Black cabs – the London taxis – are famous for their spacious cabins that can be used by five adult people at a time, and very high roofs: the vehicles are built to accommodate ladies in extravagant headwear and gentlemen in top hats. But even the black cab happened to be rather crowded this time.

Half of the company – Astrid and Robin – made themselves comfortable on the folding seats at the wall separating passengers from the driver, while the two sisters sat in the back, tilting their torsos and not knowing where to put their endless legs. Robin stared at their knees, towering above his own by a good eight inches. The sight sent a sensation of irresistible desire along his whole body, but it wasn't the right place, so he started thinking about the cityscape rolling back behind the windows.

When they got out at the restaurant, the girls immediately straightened up to stretch their necks and spines – and one should have seen the doorkeeper’s face at that moment! He didn’t just look surprised or amazed, he was shocked to his socks. Robin didn't blame the man: he could only guess how cool he himself looked there from the side... A mushroom in a pine forest, he smirked.

14.

The taxi was not the only challenge they faced. The restaurant manager was informed by Robin in advance that the party has doubled in size, but when they came in, the manager’s impression was, it had been quadrupled instead. So after the initial torpor – albeit relatively short, due her professional skills – the woman rushed to find a table suitable for the giantesses. Being not cheap by any stretch of imagination, the place was never packed, so she called two waiters, and asked them to pull two tables together. She also made sure three deep leather armchairs had been moved to the table, instead of the regular wooden ones: this was the only way the women might – just might – have been able to stick their legs underneath the tables.

“I accommodated Harlem Globetrotters here the other day,” she whispered into the waiter's ear. “You know, the basketball showmen from the US – they didn't have a single guy shorter than six-four. And I must say, it was much easier to comfort those lads than these ladies. How tall they are, I wonder!”

As he helped guests to their table, the waiter ever so secretly compared his own height with theirs – and then returned to the manager's desk.

“Hard to tell,” he said. “You know, when they came in, I thought the man was really short, but he's about my height or yours. And my chin didn’t come up any higher than the babes’ bums.”

”Yeah, I saw that. The top of your head was at the level of their waists – can you freaking believe it! These chicks are not just very tall; they're extremely tall, no, they’re way beyond extremely tall! I've never seen a man this tall, not to mention a woman. And here they are, two at a time!”

“And, besides the heights, they’re pretty as hell, aren’t they? Especially the younger one. I’d be happy to be proven wrong, but she does look very young. I mean much too young...”

“Does she?” the manager was short-sighted. “You think she’s underage? We may be in trouble then. I gotta check that, thank you.”

She approached the gang, coughed politely and said:

"I beg your pardon, but with all due respect, may I ask you, young lady, just how old are you? At this time only customers over twenty-one are allowed into the premises, and you look a little younger than that. I hope you don’t take this as an offence.”

“What's the problem?”

It was Nick. Robin had called him earlier on, to invite over as well. He appeared unnoticed just a few minutes ago – and took the initiative straight away.

“This is my fiancé; she's a foreigner and doesn't speak English. But I can assure you she is older than twenty-one.”

He made a gesture towards Kristina, as if inviting her to get up – and when she did, and bent over to him, he kissed her in the cheek. That was a genuine gesture: he hadn't seen her for a while and wanted to kiss her all over – her pretty face, her swan neck, her not yet fully developed breasts, her tummy that could be seen beneath a pale green top, her long, very long, lovely legs, but he wasn't sure it wouldn’t be frowned upon by her mother, who didn't understand a word in English and just watched the scene, smiling, as Breta tried to catch up with the translation.

“Look at her,” he proudly raised his arm high in the air, and put his hand on her upper arm. “Do you think she’s not of legal age yet?”

The manager didn't know what to think. On the one hand, the young customer’s face looked so young. On the other hand, that very face was soaring so high – she herself felt like a little child standing in front of the customer. Never before had she felt so small, forced to look way, way up at a bosom, even at a stomach of somebody else, no matter how young or old that somebody was.

“I... I am sorry miss, please accept my apologies,” the manager had made a decision – and, being overwhelmed by the presence of the person she was talking to, hadn’t pay attention to Nick’s words about her not speaking English. “To make it up to you, the first round of drinks is on the house. But please, may I ask just how tall are you?”

Nick knew the answer – at least he thought he knew the answer, but he was busy playing the role of the interpreter. So, he mumbled some abracadabra and, having received Kristina’s response, turned to the manager.

“She's two hundred and thirty-nine centimetres, which is just short of eight feet. And she's still growing,” he added proudly.

In a matter of seconds, he realised that the last words contradicted his previous statement related to her age, but the manager failed to notice. Being French, she ignored the eight feet stuff, but two hundred and thirty-nine centimetres did make an impact.

“She's a giraffe,” she told to the waiter. “She's two metres forty.”

“How do you know that?”

“I asked.”

“I wouldn’t dare to.”

“Why, she looks rather friendly. Still a giraffe though.”

“Yeah, and the other one is even taller. Not much, but still.”

“Taller? Really?” She turned around to sneak a peek. “Yeah. They must be the tallest sisters in the world. They look like sisters, and the other one must be their mother, right?”

“I think so. And she looks short next to them, can you imagine, but she's a bloody tower herself. They must have an elephant of a father,” he chuckled.

“And that man who’s just joined them – do you know who he is? The boyfriend of the younger one! He looks pathetic next to her.”

“He does. But you know, Ludivine, I guess the other one is husband or boyfriend of her sister, who's even taller – and the man himself is even shorter than his companion.”

“Can you imagine them standing on a lawn, posing for the family portrait,” the manager laughed.

“I would give my tips for a week just to watch these couples kiss,” said the waiter. “I doubt the men could have a chance to kiss their women's breasts.”

“Breasts, huh! I would eat my hat if they make it up to their navels.” 

Hi Mum:

I'm so sorry we couldn't make it last week – had unannounced guests from Sweden: Breta's mother and sister. Their visit was brief and pleasant, but it understandably influenced our plans to come and see you. However nothing's going to stop us doing that over the next weekend, so be warned and stay cool, remember my last letter, okay?

See you in a few days!

Can't wait,

Rob.

The preparations weren't long: all they needed for a short brake in his hometown was basic things like toiletries, a couple of shirts each, plus a cocktail dress and a suit – just in case. Robin knew that those in cases could happen at any time with his parents – they were quite spontaneous in throwing garden parties upon a very short notice, sometimes simply to celebrate his arrival.

They had an hour to spare before leaving for Paddington, where their train departed from. Breta asked Robin to double-check the essentials, and went to the bathroom. He opened the suitcase: everything was where it should have been: footwear on the bottom, then the jacket and the dress, scarves and shirts, toothbrushes, etcetera, etcetera. He zipped the case shut, turned around, and saw Breta's trousers hanging on the chair backrest. He knocked on the bathroom door and shouted to be heard through the noise of the running water:

“Are your black trousers to be packed?”

“No,” she shouted back, “I'll wear them now.”

He returned to the room, and sat on the sofa. Again, his eyes met the trousers. He stood up, grabbed them, lowered the sleeves to the point where they touched the floor, and lifted his arm holding up the upper edge. As they straightened up, he turned to the mirror. He saw himself standing next to the black stripe of fabric stretching all the way from the floor up to his nose – this is where the beltline was. The crotch was at the level of his chest.

He thought a little, and lifted them a couple of inches higher – Breta would not wear them barefoot. He gazed at the mirror again. Now, in addition to himself and the piece of cloth, he saw two legs of a matching length. Further up – his white bathrobe.

He turned around.

“I didn't hear you coming,” he said, ashamed.

“I can see that,” Breta smiled down at him. “What are you doing here? Borrowing my trousers for a banquet? I think, you better drink and eat as much as you can beforehand.”

“Drink and eat?”

“Well, you risk staying sober and hungry otherwise. You won't be able to put anything into your mouth, it'll be covered by the fabric.” She laughed, kneeled, and hugged him. “Honestly, my little pervert, they seem a little big for you, but I wouldn't mind borrowing them to you.”

She was so close, so fresh after the shower, her hair smelled lavender, and honey, and something equally seducing, and her eyes were so playful and inviting – he just couldn't stand it anymore. He ripped the robe open, pulled her closer and found her lips with his own. She was a touch taller than him now, he only needed to rise on his toes.

“May I at least have my toys on?” protested Breta. “I'm going to miss them so much!”

“Are you sure we have enough time?” Robin, too, would love to have her wear the Jellys.

“Trains to Bristol depart every hour, darling. And, while I’m busy, could you please go to the kitchen and make us the afterlove tea?”

In no time she came into the kitchen herself.

“I've got an idea, honey,” she said, standing by the doorway. “Sex on the fridge.”

“Sex in the fridge?”

“On the fridge, silly! Look, I'm leaning on it, and you're taking me from behind.”

And she immediately demonstrated what was in her mind. His wardrobe was always much too short for her – now, however, as she was bending down, with her elbows on top of the seven-foot-high refrigerator, it looked like a top on her body.

“Very good,” he scratched his head looking up at the peach of her round bum. “How am I supposed to get up there?”

“Not my problem, sweetie. I took my step, you take yours. And don't be too long, we're going to miss the train!”

“All right then, it won’t take a second,” and he stormed out – to the cupboard, where the ladder had been gathering dust ever since the flat renovation was over.

Dear Polly,

Can you please brew a nice cuppa before reading the following, and do sit down to make sure you’re not in a position to fall? I’ll wait.

Now then, when you’re ready, I’ll carry on.

Perhaps you remember my letter earlier this year, where I told you that my son has met a young woman in London. She is a foreigner and works in fashion. Well, they have just visited us last weekend.

I must add: Robin had warned me in advance not to be too surprised when I saw his new passion, but he never elaborated on what exactly he meant. I did not know what to expect and just tried to stay cool, no matter whom I was about to meet—be it Snow White or Pocahontas. It didn’t work terribly well, however. When they came over, I almost fainted. I most certainly would have, had it not been for George, who supported me both physically and, more importantly, mentally. I cannot describe here what I saw, my dearest Polly.

This woman is certainly one of the most beautiful creatures I have ever seen—and, knowing me for well over half a century, you will realize that I am the last person to say this lightly. But she’s gorgeous in every possible way. The only thing I could not get over, though, is that she is even taller than the former wife of Robin’s—do you remember that selfish long fish, who was only attracted to my son’s bright career prospects? So, this woman (her name is Breta; she is from Sweden) is not just taller than her; she is much taller. You will not believe me if I say that her legs alone are as tall as my whole height! And this is not a joke, nor is it an exaggeration. I did ask her—and she told me that she stood seven feet and eleven and a half inches tall. I am sure she is the tallest on Earth!

As you can probably guess, George fell in love with Robin’s girlfriend at once. I always knew he was attracted to tall women—and you probably remember his romance with that slut waitress, who was a head taller than him—so I pretended not to notice his attempts to stand as close to this woman as he possibly could, whenever he possibly could.

Of course, I didn’t tell him, but he looked just ludicrous in comparison, as the top of his head did not even reach her hips. Yes, you are reading this correctly: hips! If it had happened ten or fifteen years ago, I would most certainly have become wildly jealous, but now he’s a weak man forty-five years older than her—and besides, she is his own son’s fiancée. Therefore, I only chuckled to myself and didn’t say a word aloud.

And yes, Robin is apparently considering proposing to her. I had a word with him privately, and he did confess.

 I agreed she’s stunning and very clever, I must admit. Also, she is a very considerate and open-minded person, but she is just too tall. She is simply much too tall for Robin—and I told him that it would be really difficult for him to live with this giant of a woman. “She is literally twice your height,” I told him. “How are you going to go out with her, considering all those gazes that will unavoidably follow you?” He outright called that “rubbish” and told me that he did not care what others think. The only thing that matters, he said, is love.

“Do you think,” he said, “that with her greater-than-life personality, Breta must live her whole life alone just because she is tall? Do you think this is fair? Yes,” he told me, “she is unusually tall, but I love her, and she loves me, and we are happy together, and therefore we will make the best couple in the world.”

And you know, Polly, apart from their height difference, they surely would. I could not argue, so I just gave him my blessing. And so did George.

They have not planned their wedding yet. As a matter of fact, Robin has not even proposed to Breta, but my intuition tells me that you and I should start preparing for the occasion.

With this good news, my dear Polly, this letter is coming to an end.

Come and see us here as soon as you can; our door is always open for a good old friend.

Please take care of your health, and all the best to you.

Yours truly,

Elizabeth.