Rebecca O’Leary finished the virtual bullpen video conference with her editor and staff and started organizing her day on her tablet, checking off assignments, personal tasks and responding to requests from coworkers from the video editing section. These days, going to the Boston Globe’s headquarters was a real rarity, as it was only a modest building which belied the huge online presence of the Globe; the building had only a few conference rooms, a few offices and a basement full of cooled computer servers.

Everybody worked from the field and from home, and not even the editor went there most days; she joked sometimes that the public perception of a hotshot reporter did not really match the reality of typing away and editing photographs all day in her pajamas and bathrobe, if she bothered to wear that much, at home. Even the people editing multimedia content worked from home, all content being sent back and forth via file sharing.  In 2024, the printed edition stopped altogether, and it completely migrated into the digital world, no longer bothering to call itself a newspaper. The biggest news mill in New England had nothing to do with paper for the last decade, and it had long featured a significant amount of video content.

Rebecca herself, although most of her job consisted on writing news and a weekly syndicated column, used photographs and sometimes went out with a video crew for coverage of breaking or important news. Frowning as she tapped, swiped and typed with practiced ease on the screen, she was a bit worried on the almost overwhelming list of tasks she had riddled herself with. It was so that a bit later, her frown deepened with slight annoyance when an orange popup appeared on her screen, relayed from her cell phone. Incoming call, caller unknown.

She was not fazed by this, because she had some informants who used VPNs and other anonymizing technologies to call her. That was how she had managed to use whistleblowers and leaks for the exposé that just three years before had earned her a Pulitzer. As always, before answering, she checked the camera icon was grayed out, as she was by no means presentable for that.

“O’Leary here” She answered, after tapping on the voice icon.

“Miss Rebecca O’Leary?” A pleasant, husky voice answered back. A she, for the voice was undoubtedly female, accented, with oddly rolling R’s. Foreign, most likely, though she could not place it.

“The same. Boston Globe”.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Zava Casafus”.

Becca O’Leary was, for the first time in many years, shocked speechless. She had been more than a little peeved when the interview opportunity Mark Wilson had promised never materialized and soon, he and the giant woman were off to California after the appalling attempt on her life. It had been three days. After an awkward silence, Zava (if it was her), asked, uncertainly:

“Um… are you still there?”

Becca only managed to utter, stupidly.

“Er…” Speaking with who was not only a giant female, but a giant, seemingly indestructible extraterrestrial, was truly daunting. Despite her early anticipation for the interview, Becca felt that for once, she, who had interviewed a good number of celebrities and presidents, was truly out of her league, and had not thought things through, and the reality of all of it came crashing down now on her head.  How do you speak with such a being? What could I possibly say that does not look stupid? We must look so puny and ridiculous to her! By God, I’m not even talking to a human being! More like a superhuman being!!!  What the fuck do I say? Ok… calm down, maybe this is only a prank…

“Is this a bad time?”, said the voice, seemingly concerned “Miss O’Leary, I can call later if…”

“No, no, no, I’m fine, I was just surprised out of my wits”. Said Becca. “And please call me Becca”.

“Only if you call me Zava”, said the woman who said was Zava.

“O-of course…. Actually, I was kind of expecting Mark’s call…” Said Becca, trying to get back on her reporter’s feet.

“Well, I know it was him who asked for the interview, but I thought I should call you myself and talk a little first, with you”. Added the voice at the other side of the line. “Sorry for not calling earlier, but we wanted to have a few days to ourselves after… after what happened; anyway, I’m ready now and I was wondering if you could come over to Cali for the interview… If you don’t mind.”.

“OK… sorry… Zava… I hope you don’t mind, but first I would like to… to make sure you are really her, I mean you…” Dammit, pull yourself together!!! “I mean, who you say you are… I do not want to end up in some YouTuber’s kid prank”.

The woman in the line laughed good-naturedly.

“I can understand that.” Then the video option (from the woman’s side) came up live. Becca looked at her tablet at the vaguely ethnic woman’s smiling image on the screen. There was indeed much resemblance, but in the age of deep fakes, she could still not be sure…. And how was the giantess making this call? Then the view shook a little, retreating from the woman’s face as she looked aside, and in seconds Becca O’Leary stared, slack-jawed at the face of who was almost certainly Zava… and of Mark Wilson, looking tiny and totally dwarfed as he was held beside the woman’s face with only three fingers. Wilson waved at the camera a little sheepishly, gripped by the giant woman’s fingers by his hips. He was barefoot, dressed in jeans and a white shirt. Zava was wearing a gray t-shirt, and her hair was apparently tied in a pony tail. Then Zava put Mark down and off-screen and smiled back at Becca.

“Er… when would it be convenient for you, Zava”.

They discussed the details. Zava, with her usual honest candor, even asked Becca for her suggestions on appropriate attire for the interview, they spoke some more, the proper location, venue, etc., and then the call was over. Becca, her hands shaking with excitement, ordered Siri to call her editor.

****

Zava sighed after making the call, sitting cross-legged on her comfy cushion. She could understand the reporter’s unease, but she could not avoid a pang of loneliness as she had come to realize that reaction was the rule when interacting with earthlings. They treated her with something close to fear, one reason which she loved doing phone or text calls rather than video, as then she could expect a more normal conversation, keeping up the illusion that she was “normal”, which here meant tiny. Well, Mark had warned me being a celebrity wasn’t going to be easy. And Zava was more than a little nervous as she had never been interviewed by a reporter or been on TV or the radio (or in print), for that matter. She turned to look down on her fiancé, who was gazing at her understandingly.

“Mark… I’m a little nervous… maybe we should have waited a few more days”.

“Well, Zav, it was your idea to call her now”.

“I know…” She sighed, anew. “Better to get it over with sooner”.

“I have an idea” Said Mark, walking around to get behind Zava. She swiveled her head, ponytail whipping around.

“For what?” she said, intrigued.  

“To relax you”. His voice came from behind her cushion. “Scuttle back your ass a bit”. She did. “A bit more”. She complied.  “Lean forward a bit, dear,” Leaning on her knees with her elbows, while Intrigued, she remained there and then twitched, giggling as she felt Mark’s subtle touch over the triangle of white fabric covering her vulva. She shuddered with anticipation as she felt her slit being explored from one end to the other.

“Oh… I’m such an easy woman, Mark, you should be glad”. She purred as his little hands felt around through the fabric until he found the little mound of her clit hood and started rubbing purposefully. Not long after, a moan spurted out of her as she felt his little lover’s faze nuzzle into it with his full face, and when the edges of his teeth grazed the fleshy nub she was ready to scream. Her hand reached back and pulled aside her thong over her butt cheek.

“I know I am fortunate, my beautiful, unique Zava”.

Mark watched in wonder as Zava’s giant fingers effortlessly pulled aside her thong and her vulva was now completely bare. This never gets old, thought Mark stood taking in admiringly at the protruding fleshy folds and pads of his fiancée exposed genitalia and backside, pulsing in anticipation, already giving out her now familiar womanly musk. Exposed for him. Zava stretched out the tough fabric and secured it over her right asscheek. As per his instructions, her ass was overhanging out of the cushion and he was in the perfect position to stimulate her.  He looked around at her great asscheeks, stroking the one closer to him, running his finger over the almost invisible, downy hairs covering each inch of her derriere and kneaded her soft flesh.

He was indeed fortunate, he mused. How many times had he dived, quite literally, on mountains of titflesh, pussyflesh, buttflesh, or in her luxuriant hair, in her mouth, making her scream in satisfaction? How many times he had screamed himself as his cock was skillfully sucked off to release by an equally eager and enormous tongue and lips wide enough to suck and engulf his bigger head whole (as quite often they had). And just as often he had his penis scrutinized under her magnifying glass, as colossal feminine fingers explored his manhood, edged and milked, laying there naked as a jailbird under her looming face, legs spread, looking up at her eye, magnified to even more enormous proportions while she relentlessly manipulated his dick and balls with the precision the magnification enabled.

Now her clit was positively throbbing, sticking out in lewd aspiration out of her hood now. He bent to the task and started licking and sucking avidly, loving the sensation of his giant lover’s clit pulse in and out of her folds. He could feel Zava’s pulse in his mouth as the fist-sized nub reacted to being pampered, endorsed by Zava’s faraway whimpers. Her fingers reappeared to each side of her cunt and while he was licking, she started to peel herself open, fingers digging wetly into her folds and pulling them apart, in a wordless but unmistakable pleading to be fucked.

Then he was startled as he felt something warm nudge his back. He looked over his shoulder to see a head-sized gob of grool attached to a three-finger thick string had leaked out of her wet cave as she spread herself. The clear, thick liquid had pooled on his back and was now running down his ass.

He stepped back a bit to see Zava’s now even more revealed snatch. His own cock strummed with desire as the incredible erotic spectacle of Zava’s manipulating her intimate flesh for his benefit… and hers. Zava got off in exposing herself to him. It was spine-tingling to see the demure and coy Zava overtaken by lust… lust for him, such a gigantic woman offering herself in unthinking abandon, getting exponentially excited by knowing his little eyes were inches away from her naughty bits.

She now knew how to subtly spread and grip her folds apart in just the right way, so Mark could easily see her tight ring of ragged pink flesh, now intensely winking threshold to her womanly mysteries. And he could see much more now: her two other pulsating holes, so many creases of female flesh nudged apart by her now also very wet, slimy fingers, which had to keep adjusting her grip, coated as they were by the juices oozing out of her cunt hole with each winking pulsation, flowing down her slit into her clit. He approached it again and slapped it with some force. Zava squealed in relish.

“Uuuuuuuuuhhh…. Mark, more, more please, please don’t stop, by the Gods”.

He kept literally slapping around, with the left and with the right, faster and faster, eliciting more and more ragged breaths and squeals, until she suddenly drew back her hands, her ass shooting up into the sky as he lowered her head into the cushion.

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh”.

She collapsed on her side, her thong snapping back into place. She lay there, her whole great body quivering, panting and whimpering, unable to move, unable to speak. When she opened her eyes, she found Mark standing on the cushion next to her face, just far away to let herself focus her eyes on him. He was trembling with need, his cock bloated and rigid. She smiled and stood up, getting away from the cushion, as Mark followed her movements longingly. She then stepped out of her panties and took of her T-shirt.

****

Zava’s monumental edifice of womanhood descended, and soon she was on all fours, stalking him like a cat. Her tits hanged freely, swinging enticingly with each movement of her approach. Her head approached him and then she opened her mouth and stuck out her tongue. From his slightly elevated position Mark stood, enthralled, at her giant mouth approaching and her tongue slithering out in search of his cock. Zava looked Mark right into the eye, both moaning in chorus as her wet appendage contacted his engorged member, lifting it, and then licking it with abandon with a very nimble tongue tip, wriggling in just the right way, trapping it between the slight notch in her tongue tip and his lower abdomen.

She continued like this until, with her uncanny sensibility, she felt he was about to explode. Then, she deftly grabbed him and sat back with legs spread, lowering Mark to her crotch, while with her other hand she spread herself again, and then rubbed her clit against his cock, letting an exhalation of utter release as his warm semen soon spurted over her clit.

TWO DAYS LATER

Becca O’Leary stepped out of the airport with her crew, a photographer, a video camerawoman, two sound and light assistants and two women in charge of makeup. Mark Wilson was already there waiting for them in two Silver SUVs. Mark was smartly dressed in black pants, with matching socks and dress Marroquinera shoes, and a white shirt in starkly white Colombian silk that showed off his wide, muscular chest, she noted approvingly. Clean shaven, and smiling, he looked quite handsome, she noted. She was a little worried he (or she herself) would be recognized, but nobody seemed to pay them too much attention as they rolled their baggage and the Pelican cases full of heavy gear to his SUV. The location of Zava & Mark’s abode was still a secret. All that was known is that the plane had landed at night in a private air strip somewhere in the desert and presumably the giant woman had walked her way (to wherever she was now), across the arid wastes, as nobody had seen her since…. Where else could she hide? It’s not like she could just scurry away in an Uber ride to some lovers’ retreat…

Because of the bombing attempt on Zava, she was also sheltered by the witness protection program and other government agencies (but not the armed forces, after last week’s fiasco), the government had said, refusing to go into more details, arguing national security protocols. It had been almost a week and the only certainty was that she was in California or at least somewhere in the West Coast, although there were some wild conspiracy theories that she had been seen swimming across the Pacific or in Canada. Mark Wilson’s property in Santa Monica was stalked by the press and throngs of people after its address was leaked on Reddit, but nobody had shown up there at all; it was as empty as when he departed for his ill-fated Spindrift flight to London.

Mark had approached them as they came out of the airport doors and shook everybody’s hands. The crew, seasoned newswomen and men, could not conceal being quite a bit daunted by their assignment, a truly historical one. The down-to-earth, cordial Mark soon put them at ease and guided them to the cars. Then he got in one with Becca and the camerawoman, the rest of the crew following in the other car.