In this Chapter: We are introduced to our main character and the typical day spent in service to their giantess owner.
Main Tags of This Chapter: Crush. Unaware. Cruel. Feet. First Person POV.
Carter (Number 39)
“How are you today, 39?” someone asked me, I looked up to see the number printed on his shirt, number 918.
“I keep telling you that Carter is fine… we have names, real names” I replied.
“But we’re not supposed to use our real names… the videos said not to use our real names” he replied to me, his eyes wide and nervous, his pupils dilated, his soul was already gone.
“I know… but… I just miss saying them” I replied. 918 turned away almost in shame at our conversation before he walked off back to his cot in the corner of our habitat.
Our habitat, if one could call it that, is essentially a large shoebox that she leaves on the floor next to her bed. A few holes drilled into the sides and ceiling served as both our windows and our only source of air. Inside our habitat, we've fashioned crude rooms from scraps of fabric and cardboard dividers. Our cots are nothing more than cotton fibers wrapped in threads. The community bathrooms are plastic bottle caps filled with murk and one cap filled with clean water that get replaced every week if our master remembers to do so.
We're all packed in here, bodies pressed against bodies most of the day, until she calls us out for duty with those thunderous words that make our world quake. All of us except Number 1... he gets to live in his own house with actual furniture while the rest of us sit in this dim, suffocating box, waiting for our next degrading task.
I gaze up at the enormous clock atop her dresser, its face looming in the dim light. The glowing numbers say 1:35 a.m., a silent reminder that she'll be returning soon from work. Her giant room is a chaotic landscape, with clothes and shoes lazily scattered across the fake wood flooring. The giant bed is a mess of unmade sheets and pillows, a testament to her lifestyle. Beauty products and perfume bottles, their caps and lids missing or askew, are strewn across the nightstands, adding to the disarray. The air is tinged with a faint mix of sweet and musky scents, lingering reminders of her presence or maybe the mildew that might be in the walls of her crummy, cheap dwelling.
Her… our owner, our master… Cierra… bought us, 1000 of us in a neat little package from a store. We were told while we were in captivity that we would have an owner much bigger than us, that it was our job to serve them and do whatever they wanted us to do. We were fed propaganda and “educational” videos over and over again, attempting to brainwash us and make us forget who we were… it worked on most of us, but not all.
Cierra… we’ve been in her possession for a few months now, once 1000 people, now we have closer to 800. I wish I could say most of those 200 or so deaths were accidents, only some were…
We’re treated more like tools… so when she isn’t satisfied with our work, she… disposes of us…
Apparently we were expensive, call that a consolation, I suppose. Our pack was called “mixed tinies”. There are more options apparently though, sorted by the number of us, our gender, even our attractiveness… but our pack was all Cierra was able to afford at the time…
Cierra works as a bartender, and it took her a few months of saving her tips to be able to purchase the 1000 of us. She reminds us all the time, hangs it over our heads as if we were somehow responsible for her decision to spend her money on us.
She talks about her day with us sometimes, brings up what she’s doing in her life, but it’s hard to concentrate when we’re trying to simply just survive on her body or comply with her instructions so that we can just live another day.
She tell us that she has made attempts to get into nursing school, but then she tells us that she makes such good money as a bartender that she isn’t really trying that hard to study, always saying to us “if it happens, it happens”… I call it a lazy excuse.
She often comes home, 3am or 4am in the morning, sweaty, smelling of alcohol, she peels off her work “uniform”… her cowgirl boots, her tight denim shorts and black tank top tied into a knot across her chest followed by all her jewelry… then she makes us rub her sweaty feet, reminding us that she has a job where she has to stand all night and that it makes her feet ache and that’s the entire reason she bought us…
My hands are callused from how much we have to rub her skin… almost every damn day… up and down, side to side… pressing my body into the small crevices to make sure I’m applying enough pressure into the curves of a single toe…
Afterwards, she sometimes takes a shower… goes into her living room to eat or watch shows. She usually sleeps all morning, usually waking up in the afternoon or evening because of her sleep schedule that has been adapted to her job. She usually begins her day with some kind of sugary energy drink or laying in bed scrolling through her phone until it’s time for her to go back to the bar to work.
Thankfully I have Aliyah. She goes by Number 337 to most everyone else, Aliyah to me. It’s the hours before our owner gets back that are the best to sneak off and be alone together. Everyone else is getting ready to prepare to serve Cierra, but Aliyah and I sneak out of the box and go across the floor to hide behind one of her bedposts or discarded socks.
Aliyah is so perfect to me, her ebony skin catching what little light filters through the massive window above us. Her braided dreads fall to her shoulders and frame her face beautifully, each braid meticulously maintained despite our circumstances. When she turns to me, her dark brown eyes reflect the dim glow of Cierra's nightlight in the massive bathroom across the dirty and messy bedroom.
Aliyah survived our "training" with her spirit intact when others broke. I've watched her sit motionless for hours during Cierra's tasks, her jaw clenched but expression neutral, calculating rather than cowering. Aliyah speaks in whispers, lips barely moving, only when she's triple-checked that we're truly alone, her words precise and purposeful like everything else about her, that’s when she drops her wall and attaches herself to me and I to her.
I kissed her, held her, we lay with each other, all of us were sterilized so there’s no risk of pregnancy. She cries because she’s always wanted children, but our giant masters outlawed reproduction of captive tinies decades ago according to the history videos they made us watch.
We’re both naked in each other’s arms, trying to predict what Cierra has in store for us as we get dressed and prepare to head back to the box for our inspection and headcount. Of course, there’s always that moment where we look at each other as if it were going to be the last time… we try to be as safe as possible, to do everything our master wants us to do, but… one wrong toe wiggle and it’s death…
Aliyah and I kiss before we go back inside for the inspection, we’re lined up, all 800 of us, one at a time we go through the motions, our numbers are called and we march forward, we make sure we’ve eaten, we’re hydrated, and we’re all prepared to obey Cierra’s every command. The line dwindles, since I’m number 39, I’m already on my cot just waiting for the rest to finish. I stare at Aliyah, a little taller than most of the other women, and one of the only few who doesn’t have fair skin, I always wonder what Cierra thought about that, or if she even cared or noticed at her size.
I fantasize about Aliyah as the line gets checked off one person at a time. Sometimes I think about Aliyah as my giant owner instead, she’s caring, supportive… kind… selfless… she’d take care of me, of us… unlike Cierra… my thought cut short.
One of the line managers suddenly started yelling. “Where is 588 and 721?!” he shouted.
There’s a hush in our shoebox home as the line manager’s voice echoes off the cardboard. “Where is 588 and 721?!” the line manager yelled again. My mind raced, this has happened before. In that silence, I heard every heartbeat, I scanned the crowd for Aliyah. I see her first, searching for me too, the whites of her eyes vivid in the low light.
Then in waves, everyone rushed to the windows. I wedged my way to the front and peered through a pinhole of light. Far across the sprawling mess of our owner’s bedroom, past the heaps of laundry, upturned shoes, and tangled chargers, two figures dart across the laminate floor, little more than dark specks in a landscape designed for someone a thousand feet taller than us.
I recognize the walk of 588, with his uneven limp from a bad encounter last week when he was accidentally pinched too hard between Cierra’s pinky toe during a routine foot massage… and 721, running after him, she was barely a step behind him trying to help him. Harvey and Yelina… their real names… 2 people who had remained mentally resilient… two friends of mine…
They’re headed straight for the safe zone under the dresser, a known hideout for those who want to skip roll call and risk a night in freedom. A desperate, stupid plan… but I get it. Sometimes the urge to feel free, even for a few hours, outweighs any logic, any terror.
Anticipation swept through the shoebox community. Some root for them, silently, some hope they make it, but most just watch as they don’t care what happens beyond serving our master.
But I know what comes next before it happens… they waited too long to leave…
Cierra’s key turned in the door. The latch clicked, the floor trembled in warning. Her boots, those same battered, dark brown cowgirl ones that have been the last thing many of us ever see, thud on the fake wood, sending a quiver through the walls of our box. My hands trembled, not from fear, but from the sick certainty of her approaching, something I’m still not quite used to.
Cierra doesn’t see them… 588 and 721… she doesn’t need to see them. She’s on her phone… fake, long-nailed fingers tapping out a message, her other hand balancing a half-empty can of some fruity drink.
She winds her way through her living room and kitchen as she approached her bedroom. She’s oblivious, lazily using her arm to flick on the light… her boots thudding into the ground with a violent quake with each careless step as her frame enters into the room, she’s massive, and her eyes are still transfixed on her phone.
It happens in a few seconds. One moment they’re sprinting for cover, and the next, the heel of her left cowgirl boot comes down. There’s a sickening, wet crunch, subtle, barely audible, but I’ve learned to recognize it. 588 is gone. Just like that. No scream. No struggle. Just a flat, red splatter seeping into the faux-wood grain, so slight that Cierra doesn’t even pause. 721, caught near the edge of the boot, is flung aside with the quake, her body thrown and arcing in the air. Her body spins, lands hard, and she tries to crawl away to safety. A second, small pivot from Cierra’s boot, and 721 is just a smear and a stain. All evidence mashed into an anonymous pile of gore.
Aliyah, next to me, didn’t look away, nor did I. It’s important that we see. Important to remember that every one of us here is a heartbeat away from the same fate. No one cried out; we’re too used to it, too conditioned. Still, I felt that weird nausea, a tightness in my stomach and chest. I reached for her hand, and she let me hold it for a moment. The line manager, grim-faced, makes 2 marks on his clipboard. The roll call continued, as if 2 lives hadn’t been ground out within view of the whole community.
Our master has just arrived back home… unintentional, impersonal, a simple step after a long, busy night… her boots too thick to have even noticed the feint crunches beneath her… but for us, our reality was displayed for all to see…
But there’s no time for grief. Not here. Cierra’s ritual is always the same, and we know the steps by heart. She strips off her boots and socks, tossing them in the corner. They land near our box, close enough that the scent of her sweat fills the air, acrid and dense. She pulls off her tight shorts and tank top, leaving them in a heap on the floor near her dresser. Underneath, her tan skin is flushed, glistening with a long night’s worth of sweating and moving around, heat rising in waves as we can feel it radiating off her body.
She collapses onto her bed, phone still in hand after she had sat the can down on her desk. She begins to scroll, lazily wiggling her toes and flexing her arches as she lays in just her bra and panties, but we can’t see her anymore, the underside of the bed behind us is sunken downward, her body hundreds of feet above.
We wait patiently for her to acknowledge us or command us to do something, but there’s nothing at first, usually she would have picked up the box by now or made us all get out, all of us bracing to be lifted to the sky and dumped around and all over her body… but 10 minutes pass.
Cierra’s next movement was sudden, a shift in gravity and the mechanical strain from her bed springs. She slung her phone aside with a flick of her wrist and propelled herself upright from her mattress. Her body unfolded, a living monument rising past the horizon of the shoebox as her tanned feet landed on either side of us, tracing her legs up hundreds of feet.
We were forced to look up at her. It was her favorite part. Cierra always made sure our box was positioned at the foot of her bed, never quite out of sight, always within range of her attention. She knew we watched her. She expected it. She craved it even. Our very first lesson when we were brought home was that Cierra’s attention could mean salvation or extinction, and it was impossible to predict which would happen, so we might as well bask in her glory according to her while she decides our fates.
She stood in the center of her room, arms overhead in a casual stretch, and the reality of her scale blotted out everything else. Her tanned skin was covered by goosebumps and drying sweat under the harsh white ceiling light tracing the outline and curves of her body.
Her collarbones jutted out sharply as she stretched forward, extending her arms above the cut of her red bra. Then she looked down at us, her brown eyes inching over the curves of her breasts, chin tucked, eyes half-lidded and expressionless. She had the kind of face you never got used to, pretty, almost cruel in its beauty, her mouth perpetually unsmiling. Rows of piercings glittered along her left and right ears, her dyed blonde hair with brunette roots, shot through with a few streaks of blue and purple, fell straight to her shoulders, limp with the residue of a night spent in heat.
She peeled her bra off with a single flick, as if undressing before an audience was as natural as breathing. She let it fall to the floor, and we all heard the impact, the damp exhalation of sweat-soaked fabric hitting wood, the rustle as it landed half across our box. Our master was nearly totally exposed now, and the air in the cardboard community went viscous with both terror and awe. Her skin littered with a few small black and grey tattoos including one just above her right ankle with some flowers and stars.
I could feel Aliyah’s hand tighten around mine; I could feel the eyes of the others locked in silence, some unable to look away, some unable to look at all, and some, like me, stuck somewhere in the middle…
Cierra always dragged these moments out, letting the pressure build. She reached down, thumbs dipping under the waistband of her black panties, and eased them over her wide hips. The elastic bit into her curvy flesh, leaving red indentations marking her skin. The panties slithered down her thighs, around her knees, then fell in a ring around her ankles. She stepped out of them, her bare feet nestling next to us, her toes chipped with half-peeled pink polish as she lifted a foot and stalked across the bedroom toward our box.
She looked down at us again, but this time her lips curved in a faint, subtly smirk. It was the only smile she ever wore, and it was never for our benefit. The sweat of her body hung in the air, a complex, layered scent of coconut lotion, musky perfume, and a sour sweaty stench. The sharp tang of it pulled at the back of my throat, a living reminder that we were just as much her property as her discarded clothes or half-empty bottles of nail polish across the floor.
She bent at the waist, bringing her face mere inches away from our entire world. Her pupils dilated, black holes rimmed by a neutral web of brown and subtle orange. I could see the shimmer of mascara clumped at the long lashes, the faint sparkles of glitter on her eyelids from her makeup. She exhaled, and the wind of her humid breath scented with alcohol and fruit rattled our box.
Her body always surprised me, every time she loomed close… It wasn’t that Cierra fit the mold of what we were told giants were supposed to look like… that they were all going to be impossibly thin, every limb and curve sculpted like a runway model. Cierra was more real. When she bent over us, her belly hung soft and taut above the line of her curvy hips, a roundness that flexed and rolled with her every breath. Just above her navel, a silvery collection of jewels flickered in the light, her signature belly piercing, small and cheap but always perfectly centered.
Even from the scale of a speck, I could see the swells and undulations of her thighs, the way the flesh at the top pressed into itself when she bent or squatted to reach for something. She had a gut, small, but undeniable. When she lounged on her side, it softened into a pronounced curve, a little roll folding over the waistband of whatever she wore.
Her breasts, heavy and round, settled lower than her bras wanted them to, her tits and hips accented by subtle tan-lines indicative of her days off spent at the lake. Not that her slightly overweight body made her less of a threat, or any less imposing or beautiful. If anything, it made her more terrifying, she was a monument to the way power could be so casual and still absolute…
“Some asshole spilled a drink on me, so I’m gonna shower… y’all got lucky tonight” her southern accent said with a low purr, but every syllable shook the air, the kind of sound you could feel in your teeth. She didn’t expect an answer. She never did. Cierra stood back up straight and wandered over to her nightstand, all of us forced to look up her backside, her thick thighs and ass shaking in the sky above us, at least where we could see from the underside of her sweaty, hazy bra.
Her nightstand where a tiny dollhouse sat in a place of honor above us. The “dollhouse” was a privilege, and we all knew who was in there: Number 1, the golden boy, her top pet.
She rapped her long acrylic multi-colored nails on the roof of the tiny house, a single, sharp tap to finish the gesture off. Inside, we could see movement, a shadow, then a face pressed to a tiny window. Number 1 looked out, lips parted in awe or terror or both, hands braced against the glass. Cierra stuck her tongue out, nearly pressing it against the window and giggled.
I felt the old, familiar flash of anger burn through my stomach, hotter than fear, more lasting than any hope. Number 1… this fucker got to avoid everything, never working a single day since we were purchased… and what did he do to deserve such a life of privilege? Fucking nothing, not a fucking thing… Cierra picked him at random on the first day because she thought he was… cute… but I think it’s just because he was the first body her fingertips met.
As if on cue, her voice thundered down from the clouds. “Hey, little man” she purred in that drawled accent, and tapped the dollhouse roof again, her naked breasts jiggling some. She leaned in, resting her chin on her hand, so close I thought her breath might fog up the dollhouse windows. “How was your day?” she asked, the mockery… she never asked us how our day was… but knowing he couldn’t answer from his dollhouse, she giggled and jiggled her tits above his house as if rewarding him with the view of her body.
Cierra turned back, stretching her arms overhead again, every muscle in her body taut and glistening. She was, at that moment, utterly unbothered and unaware by what she’d just done only a few moments ago, the two stains of blood of 588 and 721 she’d left behind like signatures of carelessness on her own floor.
She yawned, arching her back catlike and with a devious smirk used her toe to flick her black panties at us, the sweaty fabric crashing next to and atop our home and the red bra that was already discarded over us. The pungent stench of her sex now fumigating our rooms…
She padded toward the bathroom, the skin of her bare feet slightly sticking and pulling up from the floor. She paused near the front of her bed to glance down. Her gaze lingered on the smudges that had been 588 and 721, finally noticing their bloody remains, and for a split second, I thought I saw a flicker of something like regret in her eyes. But then she shrugged, just a flick of her shoulders, a dismissal, and vanished into the swirling steam of the bathroom as the hiss of the water echoed through the room.
The line managers tried to restore order, barking at us to stand in rows, but their voices trembled. I looked for Aliyah, found her kneeling by the side of her cot. She wasn’t crying, just breathing slowly, in and out, eyes closed. I walked over and put my hand on her shoulder, and she looked at me, steady, unblinking, already returned to herself, as I tried to ignore the scent of our master’s sex wafting off her damp panties that draped over our home.
“Are you okay?” I whispered. Aliyah nodded, then leaned in close so I could feel her lips brush my ear.
“One day, we’ll get out of here… I know it” Aliyah said, then she started to re-braid one of her dreads, her anxious tick, keeping her hair perfect as a distraction, a few strands of her hair frizzling up from the humidity emanating off the giant panties outside. I believed her. Did I? Maybe. I pretended to, for her sake, it’s hard to imagine freedom from this life…
The sound of dense splashes could be heard, an indifferent goddess running her hands through her hair with shampoos and conditioners that wouldn’t disturb the dyed blonde hair and blue-purple streaks mixed in.
I wondered what task she’d have for us tonight; what new torment or delight she’d invent or if it was just going to be a standard massage. The anticipation was almost worse than the moment, but at least she wouldn’t be sweaty… a small blessing I’d take any day. I’ve seen too many people pass out from the stench of her feet alone, especially when she first got us in the summer… we were never given masks or suits, just our uniforms with our numbers and a handful of small tools…
Thankfully we adopted to our master’s schedule, 4 am only felt like the beginning of our day, we were awake and ready to get out there. Her thick and curvier body emerged a half hour later, wrapped in a white towel as the wet strands of her dyed blonde hair clung to her upper back and above her curvy breasts.
She sat on the edge of her bed, giggling as she kicked away the bra and panties that had been trapping us inside, she looked down at us. “Alright, y’all… get to it” she commanded. She leaned back and let her body collapse into her bed with her phone in hand and her head propped atop a pillow. Her feet and toes were still on the floor wriggling as she waited for our hands to meet her skin.
We filed out, all 800 or so, in rows of 50, about 15 or 20 of us in each assigned group as the line managers barked orders. Some are assigned to clean underneath her nails and pull the gunk out, others assigned to massage her toes or heels.
A few unlucky groups are tasked with picking dried skin from her soles, a job you never forget, I’ve done it twice so far. You have to wedge yourself underneath the ball of her foot, crawling underneath the weight of her foot, any slight pressure and you’re squished… having to trust our master with your life that she won’t crush you… all she because she simply doesn’t want to lift her feet an inch off the floor…
Aliyah and I are assigned to different teams tonight, but we exchanged a look before separating. It’s a promise, survive, come back, find me. The moment we step onto the hardwood, the carnage is still visible. The remains of 588 are no more than a splatter of crimson. 721’s fate is less dignified. A chunk of her is stuck to our master’s cowgirl boot, and as I walk by, I see 721’s face, flattened, eyes bulging, mouth frozen in what might have been a scream. I wonder if she knew it was coming, if she had time to regret the risk… reduced to a shrug of a shoulder by our master.
Cierra is oblivious. Or maybe she isn’t and just doesn’t care. She dangles her legs off the bed, heels tapping to the rhythm of a song only she can hear in her head. We gather around her toes, each of us knowing our place, our role. The line manager hands me a threadbare strip of cotton, my tool for the night. I set to work, rubbing circles into the arch of her foot, careful not to press too softly as it could tickle her… that’s how we lost 650 and 19 a few days ago, making an example out of them with a quick twist of her sole onto their bodies while all of us watched, punishing us further by making us peel the flattened bodies off her skin and scrubbing the blood so her feet could remain perfectly pampered.
Her tan skin is warm, slightly damp still, and smells like salt and feint foot odor. After a while, the scent fades, replaced by the metallic tang of sweat and the chemical burn of her coconut lotion as I rub and rub along with a few other groups on this part of her foot that towers over us…
Every so often, she puts her phone down and glances toward us, her stomach folding and her breasts looming. Watching us with bored amusement, her brown eyes barely having any emotion, I’ve concluded that there isn’t much going on behind her eyes anyway… not a single intelligent thought has escaped those lips… just staring at the tiny people by her feet, all of us under a half-inch tall compared to her… ants…
Sometimes she’ll single someone out, pluck them between two fingers, and hold them up to her face, it’s never been me or Aliyah so far… if she’s in a good mood, she’ll set them back down gently, maybe even toss a crumb of food for us as a reward, showing us that she’s capable of half-hearted compassion at times.
If not, she might squeeze a little, just to watch them squirm between her fingers. But it’s been worse before… I’ve seen it on occasion… she picked out a younger woman, number 245, our master swallowed her whole… just because she could, I still remember her scream as she fell down master’s throat… another time, Cierra picked up a few more people who were working on her toes, panting them white on that occasion… she grabbed them up, chewed them up and spat them out, forcing us to look at a pile of unrecognizable gore and saliva stuck to the floor until we cleaned it…
Others get slightly luckier… maybe? Dropped into her bra for hours as living padding but eventually freed and spared… others don’t make it back, placed into her bra or panties before she goes to work, we never see them again. So, I keep my head down, say nothing, and keep working, praying it’s not me or Aliyah that gets chosen.
After about an hour, my hands are raw, but the job is almost done. Cierra’s breathing is slow and deep; she’s drifted off to sleep, phone perched on her chest, her legs still dangling. Most of us retreat to the safety of the box, but a few remain, tasked with cleanup.
I climb a ladder that we carried all the way to the boot laying on its side, hand over hand, until I reach the flat tread where 721 is lodged into Cierra’s massive cowgirl boot. I pry what’s left of 721’s body loose, a piece of torso, a smear of bone and hair, and wrap it in the cotton scrap. It’s not a burial, but it’s better than being left to rot. Down below, I see other teams scraping at the blood spots on the floor, each one working in silence. When it’s done, the floor looks the same as always, unremarkable. As if none of us were ever there amongst the scattered shoes and dirty clothes.
Back in the box, Aliyah is waiting. She hugs me tightly, and for a second, I forget everything, the deaths, the cleaning, even the soreness in my hands. But it never lasts. Nothing good ever does.
We rest for the time being, but we know this is only a nap for our master. On cue, about an hour later, our master wakes up to get dressed in some athletic shorts, fuzzy socks, and a simple shirt. She’s in her living room, eating dinner and watching some reality television show about people dating I think. It’s passed 5am, hopefully she goes to bed soon and ignores us the rest of the early morning…
She does… she steps right over us around 6am in the morning, not even a thank you for our service as she does so, she hums a song as she brushes her teeth, the lights go out and she covers herself in blankets and pillows as the blackout curtains in her room block the sunrise that I so desperately want to see. I look up to see Number 1’s dollhouse atop her nightstand. Cierra reaches over and gives it a little playful tap with her nail as she giggles. “Goodnight…” she says in a cutesy voice.
Aliyah and I wash up in the bathrooms, it’s filled with people openly using them as I still can’t get used to that smell either, but we silently communicate with one another and we both nod. Aliyah in her cot next to mine. I stare at the ceiling as she occasionally reaches over and rubs my arm, or I stroke my fingers down her back… I tease her and sometimes twiddle one of her braided locks as she chuckles, trying to keep it quiet as to not wake anyone else up. Aliyah falls asleep before me as usual.
I can’t help but think about how the cycle is just going to repeat the next day, and the next, and the next… each roll call, the number of people shrinks… and each day, Number 1 does nothing but sit up there and look down at us… he contributes nothing while we perish and serve our master with a sickening dedication as if it will somehow spare our lives, working our hands to the bone…
Uneasy sleep is quite common, all of waking up if we hear our master above us shifting in her bed. I lay awake that night while everyone else around me seemed to fall back asleep after Cierra had turned over and smacked her lips a few times.
My thoughts as I lay awake… are… disturbed…
I often actively fantasize about killing Cierra myself. If I was her size… she would already be buried in multiple pieces in a dense forest… never to be found… Cierra begging me not to do it as I snap her neck… or slam her face into the floor…
Or maybe all of us tiny slaves stab her eyes out with our cleaning tools, we clog her throat and make her choke to death, climbing up her body while she sleeps and stuffing ourselves into her airways… but these fantasies are useless… there isn’t a feasible way to climb up her bed and there are not nearly enough sane-minded people who would be willing to commit to a one way trip…
I think about all the things that could go wrong… she swallows us without even knowing… she brushes a hand over her stomach and were all paste before we even get to her face… too many things could go wrong when you are this fragile compared to a careless giant.
So, I try to think about other things to distract myself from the zealousness, like Aliyah being my master, or even us being the same size as Cierra… normal… Aliyah having children, us going on a holiday… maybe we even fight and advocate for tiny rights even if it meant being ostracized from society… I wouldn’t care.
But no… this is our life, a product that was made to serve…