Lotus Eater

This was my entry for the quarterly SizeRiot contests – specifically GentleApril20 – organized by AborigenGTS. I was a lot more experimental with this one (at least from my perspective) so when I received the feedback that I did and saw that it did rather well in the evaluations, I was floored and humbled.

Link to SizeRiot

Link to GentleApril20 Stories

I’ve added around 180 extra words to this story, and have modified some existing lines based on some feedback I received, along with input from my wife. The original version can still be found at the link above, and if you haven’t read the stories, I highly recommend looking through them. This go ’round seemed to hit me particularly intensely and I’m so happy to have had the pleasure of reading through these.

For this story in particular, with the topic being “Rescue”, I spent a long time deliberating how I wanted to approach it. In a lot of media, whenever there is any situation needing a ‘rescue’, often times the rescuee is often the one subject to change, rather than an agent of it. I wanted to make it clear that Cana wasn’t just caught in tides and eddies of something larger than her, but that she was an active participant in her fate.

There comes a point with writing that I want to add too much to a story. Most of my original drafts are often bloated with description and dialogue, so I find that I have to pick and choose the most impactful lines to fit a scene. This story could have existed as something much larger, and its original incarnation was something like 4K~ words, but in trimming it down to meet the word count, I was able to pick out the sections that I feel delivered the best story I could. It’s better as a shorter story, than a longer one, which is a lesson I try to take to heart.

Content Warning: giantess, F/f, gentle, NSFW, giantess, failed relationship, gaslighting, language, nudity, panic attack, rescue, ambiguous ending

Estimated Reading Time: 10 minutes


The surface she’d been lying on rose and fell in smooth, rolling motions, in time with the waves.

Her world looked down at her with a beatific smile. “You with me, Cana?”

“Always.”

Orphea started humming something: some ancient song that dug deep into Cana’s spirit and brought light to the surface like bubbles in a bath. Cana laughed and stood up from her lover’s navel. Soon she was dancing, diving into the languid melody with her body and halfway to heaven.

“You’re very good,” Orphea said after what felt like hours of dancing. Hours or centuries. Cana collapsed and draped herself along a thigh that stretched from the tree line to shore.

Cana shrugged lethargically and turned over on her side. Orphea’s corded muscle was comfier than any mattress. The corner of her mouth was sticky with the remains of some fruit she couldn’t remember eating.

“What do you want to do today?” Orphea ran a finger along her back and Cana shivered at the ember warm touch. “Anything my special girl feel like doing?”

“Special?”

Orphea, her world, cooed, “You’re my special girl, aren’t you?”

“You’re going to spoil me.”

“That would imply you could ever be anything but adorable.” Orphea’s palm settled over Cana like a blanket. “Why are you arguing?”

Cana shook her head, digging her face into the sun-kissed tan of her lover’s massive leg. Stray sand pricked at her eyes. “I’m not. I’m just… happy.”

She smelled like the ocean. Like salt and sun and a sea so vast Cana could get lost in her for eternity.

“What’s wrong with that?” Orphea said. “Don’t you deserve to be happy?”

Cana closed her eyes, listening to the whispers of the reef. Nightfall wasn’t far.

Fingers the size of logs scooped her up into a palm, but Cana wasn’t startled. Enormous lips settled on her body, gentle as a flower’s petal. The kiss was otherworldly soft and caring and Cana giggled drunkenly on the endorphin high of affection.

When she pulled back, Orphea was beaming. “I love you, little bird.”

Heat bloomed in Cana’s chest at the words, followed by a tightness in her belly.

“Cana?” Orphea frowned, brow knitting together. “Are you with me?”

Cana shook her head and wiped away sudden and unbidden tears. Orphea looked distant, too distant. Even sitting in her palm surrounded by her, it didn’t change the mysterious pang and wrench in her heart.

“…always,” Cana said eventually.

The concern in Orphea’s eyes abated. She stroked Cana’s head with her thumb before offering a leafy branch, daintily pinched between two fingers. Golden yellow fruit hung from its leaves.

Cana plucked one. It glistened with a lovely, enticing sheen and tasted even better than it looked. Slick fruit juice dribbled down the side of her mouth and her vision swayed.

The world felt so big. She felt so safe.

Eons passed and she laid there, content and dazed. Everything was perfect.

***

“Cana?”

Cana ignored it, curling up and digging her head into her arms.

The voice tried again, more insistent. “Cana, wake up.”

She groaned, aimlessly shooing the voice away.

“Cana, you need to wake up right now…”

***

Life with Orphea was a treasure. It was waking at dawn and rising with the moon and always fitting time in moments when nothing was happening. Cana couldn’t remember the last time she didn’t have a fruit in her hand and a giantess around to tease her.

“Join me!” Orphea called, winking at Cana, who approached the newly discovered lake with a suspicious eye. “Come on! Someone’s been making me work up a surprising amount of sweat lately.”

“Is it safe?” Cana asked, but couldn’t help how her eyes drew to the way water sluiced down a thigh many times larger than any tree around. She could take a shower in just the runoff from Orphea’s body.

“I’ll keep you safe.”

***

A hand grabbed her shoulder. Cana’s eyes shot open at the foreignness of the sensation. A woman knelt over her. A regular woman.

She had her hair up in a bun, had some kind of jumpsuit, and she looked off in that most crucial of ways.

“Hey,” said the woman, smiling. She sounded relieved. “Good to see you, little bird. Thanks for coming up.”

Tears pooled in Cana’s eyes.

***

She and Orphea stared at a never-ending sunset, burning a trail down the horizon and their corneas. She sat cross-legged in Orphea’s lap, the heat of her lover’s body protecting her from night’s encroaching chill.

She felt…worn. Which was expected, given the day’s activities, but it went deeper than just the mild stickiness and delicious relief everywhere in her limbs. Four times may not have been a lot to some, but it was a point of pride of Cana’s that this time it was all unassisted. Her body ached with something like satisfaction but far more delicious.

“Do you think you’ll ever get tired of me?” Cana asked.

“Oh Cana,” Orphea cooed, above her. “How could I ever get tired of you? Now come here, I think you need a tongue bath for that mess you made…”

Cana jumped to her feet, leaping off from the lap of a woman who could run laps around a small country.

“You’ll have to catch me first!”

***

“You can’t be here.” Cana scrabbled backwards, away from the aberration, kicking up sand. It was nighttime. The wind had stopped. The sea was still. The island was asleep. “You can’t. This is wrong. This is— no, you’re wrong.”

The woman looked like Orphea. She had the same general features—deep auburn hair, round face, cupid’s bow lips, and a mole just below her left eye—but the similarities ended there. Orphea’s expression was always kind, her mouth never held anything but smiles. This stranger’s mouth was pursed thin, and her eyes were hard.

Imperfections that accented a nightmare.

“I’m here,” the woman said, as if that made it better. “Cana, sweetie, I’m here.”

“You left,” Cana accused. “You left.”

Orphea—no, not Orphea, Cana reminded herself—grimaced. “I’m sorry. I…I didn’t mean to hurt you. I know we left on a bad note but…we weren’t good for each other.”

“That doesn’t make it better!”

The woman flinched, but took a step closer anyways. “It makes me human.”

Cana snarled at the blasé retort. Words she’d thought long forgotten rose to the tip of her tongue, ready to spew. They were words reserved for someone who’d always made her feel worthless. Made her feel like nothing, like she never mattered.

“I’m sorry,” said the fake. “I’m sorry I said those things, but we can’t stay here, Cana. This place isn’t right–”

“Then leave!” Cana spat. She grabbed a rotting fruit from her branch and lugged it at her, missing by a mile. Her muscles shrieked at the sudden, violent motion but Cana paid them no mind. “Leave like you did before! Leave like you did when I bared my soul to you, told you about every fucked thought that’s ever crossed my head, about my fantasies, about how I—” here her voice broke, and Cana cursed her weakness to follow through.

***

“You’re incredibly small,” Orphea said one day, out of the blue. “Do you ever get tired of that? It must be awfully inconvenient.”

Cana giggled and bit into the jujube fruit in her hand, smearing sweet juices along her cheeks but emboldening the pervasive tipsy glow beneath her chest. Her brown hair was long and tangled, and her face hadn’t seen a makeup brush in forever, but still she felt precious. Precious and treasured on this isle of nothing, surrounded by a single woman.

“It would be,” Cana said, before running along the branch of the enormous tree that extended out over the lower back of the only woman for her, jumping off without a thought. She was over fifty feet in the air, and still she felt no fear. Air rushed past her face as she reached near terminal velocity, and—

“Careful!” Orphea scolded, turning over and catching her so gently it defied all logic.

“But I know you’ll always be there for me.”

***

“Leave,” she croaked. Her voice cracked with thirst and heartbreak as she continued. “Please. I— I don’t want to see you again.”

Where was Orphea? She wanted Orphea.

“That’s not fair,” the fake said. She looked wretched, leagues better than Cana felt. “You can’t just throw this stuff back in my face. That was a long time ago.”

Was it? Cana could scarcely remember things outside of earlier that morning. That pleasurable haze of rock-climbing up the rump of her enormous lover, diving into that bush between two legs that parted to reveal treasure more precious than any pearl. Of singing and dancing in the flat of her palm, singing words that had no meaning for the one who meant everything.

“You have to leave,” Cana asserted weakly once more.

“Cana, sweetie, I’m right here. I came back!” said the fake. “I’m sorry about before. I’m sorry I was so insensitive, but you’re in trouble if you stay here much longer.” Something in her chest pocket beeped and the woman made a face. “Look, just stay right here. I need to send up the signal to get home and the longer I wait—”

Cana stood and turned away from her. She suddenly felt ashamed in front of this woman. She barely even remembered the idea of clothing before now, but she wanted to hide now. Hide her self, her body from this creature who rejected her once before.

A series of low toned buzzes and beeps, along with rushed codified terms from the woman that Cana couldn’t catch in its entirety.

She tried storming off but stopped due to a sudden onset of vertigo. She fell to her knees, skin prickling with dislike.

“What did you do to her?!” she rasped, and then called out, “Orphea! Orphea!”

Cana coughed. Her head was stuffed with cotton, her arms and legs filled with cement.

“Christ. This is what I’m talking about,” muttered the fake. She walked up next to Cana and plopped down beside her, knees up and facing the sea. Another difference struck Cana: this woman didn’t meet her eyes. “It’s this place. Your dreams. Lotus Syndrome.”

“Shut. Up.” Cana breathed in hard through the tears and gasped once again, “Orphea!”

The fake shot her a twisted, yet familiar expression. Pity. “You’re dreaming, Cana. There’s no one here but us.”

“You’re—” she coughed, “—lying.

“I’m the only one around.” The fake lit up a cigarette, pulling it and a lighter out from some chest pocket in her suit. “And you would not believe the crap I had to go through to get here. Tests, training, brain dives… you’ve got a real fucked up head, you know that? Signal’s been sent by the way. We’re going home.”

Cana sobbed, robbed of her energy in this most sacred of places.

“I’m really sorry about before,” the fake continued, not even referring to what. “But when I heard you got hit with Lotus Syndrome, I couldn’t just leave you.”

“I was happy. I am happy.”

“Oh honey.” The thing in Orphea’s skin sounded earnest and condescending. “You’re sick. I’m sorry me leaving did this to you.”

Cana would have laughed if she wasn’t choking on air. The sweetness from before was gone, along with Orphea.

“Don’t worry, things are going to be rough up there, but—” and here the woman had the gall to smile, and pat her on the head comfortingly, as if she had the right, “—we’ll make it through this, little bird. Together. Are you with me?”

“Never!”

The woman jerked her hand back from the outburst.

“We were together!” Cana yelled, “We were! But then you called me a fucking sicko and you left and now you’re back and I’m supposed to just accept that? What, did the guilt suddenly get too much?” She snorted derisively. “Did they promise to fix the sicko’s fetish for you too if you jumped in her head?”

Her breaths came like sucking down a gas pipe of frustration, but still she fought against her body, at the feeling of reality shackling her. She clawed desperately at the ground, digging into the beach for something other than useless sand. It couldn’t end like this.

“Cana, you don’t think that,” said the fake, as if she thought this was a conversation. “It’s just the disease. We’re real deep in your subconscious right now and—”

There. Her fingers found purchase on something soft and buried. She clenched her hand instinctively around it and yanked it out.

The fake stopped talking, and swore.

“Cana,” said the fake. She sounded wary. “Put that down. It’s not actually there. You’re mind is just supplying a substitute for—”

Cana bit down. It was rotten, mushy and disgusting to the core, but the pit seed still had some juice, and she whimpered as she realized what it was. What it always tasted like.

Orphea.

***

“So what do you want to do today, little bird?”

Little Mary’s Strings

This was my entry for the quarterly SizeRiot contests – specifically CruelJan20 – organized by the awesome AborigenGTS. It had the honor of tying for first for the “psychological cruelty” category.

Link to SizeRiot

Link to CruelJan20 Stories

Normally cruelty is not my main focus. I like to explore characters and their circumstances, have fun repartee between a couple people if so possible, and enjoy the extreme size aspect of a lot of it, even if there’s some peril involved.

That was not the case for this story. This story, I decided to be ugly and horrid and to be honest it put me in a bad headspace many times in the course of writing it. Someone asked me about inspiration for this story, and truth be told a lot of it’s been building up just from seeing certain groups bully others on the internet.

There’s a lot I can say about the kind of truly malicious subculture this story reflects, but I’m not here to rant. Please mind the content warnings below.

Content Warning: NSFW, giantess, violence, death, gore, vore, crush, body modification, noncon, psychological cruelty

Estimated Reading Time: 10 minutes


The sky’s red here.

look

There’s no mention of a direction, but something moves her head anyway. She sees the sun sloping down on the horizon, off to bless the rest of the world. Her gaze turns downward, to where the ocean kisses the coast and buildings sprout in a garden of metal and glass, with a vine of blue piercing through.

It’s absolutely stunning. 

The tallest skyscraper ekes upwards by two meters on her. She wants to stand and admire the ingenuity, the beauty.

ur ex live there?

She does. They’d parted on amicable terms but the thought of Robin sends a soft pang through her trailer-sized heart. It joins the rest of the aches and pains and hushes, muzzled.

Her pale skin is raw and burnt a deep, dangerous red. It’s a percussion of agony that keeps getting shoved into the closet in favor of those commands, but something about the city rouses more fight in her.

he sux, right?

No, she doesn’t.

she?
lol
tht's hot

She responds to this with the same emotional detachment as before. It isn’t autopilot and it isn’t sleepwalking. She’s aware of everything around her, but her thoughts can’t disturb the placidity of her conscious state. Like a dream, except not hers.

What had she been doing before? Where had she been going? Those thoughts don’t matter anymore. Just the commands.

…right?

go say hi

She doesn’t want to though. Not like this.

cmon
it'll be sexy

There’s a road curling around her ankles, long and winding like an asphalt snake. Brushery dots the surrounding vista, and she sees now the power lines leading from tower to tower, arcing their way into various parts of the city.

If she gets any closer she’ll blow out the power leading into the city. People will panic, get hurt.

who cares

She doesn’t. Does she?

step on that car

Something – not her, definitely not her – lifts her foot. The lines of cars and trucks and stick figures scrambling away increase their pace.

A memory pushes to the forefront. She remembers first grade, when the boy she had a crush on pushed her into the sand and right before he pressed her face into the anthill. She remembers how gross the sand tasted and her uselessness, crying and blubbering snot down on their scampering lines.

Some of that fear bubbles up again. It spikes up her hindbrain, kick-starting her fight-or-flight response, only to smooth over just as fast.

There’s someone in the car. Trapped. She can’t make out their details but they’re jerking, slamming against the dashboard.

Screaming?

even better
Ur so much bigger than hi.m

The sound her foot makes when it crushes the lipstick red convertible leaves her hollow. A sound like aluminum foil and a dying mechanical whine.

She doesn’t even feel the driver underfoot.

No. Oh god no.

not god
goddess

She wants to throw up, just like in first grade.

grind your foot, it’ll feel good

It doesn’t. Her foot’s plowed through asphalt and made a crater. Grinding her foot into the road is like running it along thorny bristles and sharp rocks. Metal and stone cut into her skin, lacerating it, and that too joins the catalog of sensations that are not important right now.

lmao look at that guy

She spots another man. He’s on his front, crawling away from her. Dapper business suit rumpled, a smudgy trail of dark liquid trailing behind him. He’s alternating, left right left, with his hands, pulling himself as fast and far away as he can get. His suit end around mid-thigh, where bloody stumps gush.

pick him up

He’s dying. He needs help.

stick him ur pussy

That prompts a physical reaction from her. She recoils, the mental fog lifting, and she gasps, greedily sucking in the thin air as she grabs her stomach, bends over, gags and-

do it
do it
do it
Fucking do it u bitch

The fog descends on her once more, and she straightens. Her face contorts into something unrecognizable, like she’s got a plastic mold under her skin: lips curved, mouth open, teeth exposed. She feels like a demented giant clown.

fuck
this is awesome lol

She’s aware now. Every little thing previously filed under unimportant. The sky, the burn on her skin, the slow unrelenting drag on her limbs from being large enough to crush an Audi.

The man crawling away doesn’t care though. All he sees are her fingers flopping him into her palm. There’s rough push and shove as she’s forced to insert his whole body in a place meant for no man. It’s revolting.

u likke it 
right?

Screaming. She’s screaming now. Her mouth is making lewd noises but her heart is shrieking.

She doesn’t want this. She never wanted this.

go
find ur ex

This time, she resists. She wants to turn around and run. Cut off her strings, turn tail and hide in the desert and just die like the miserable wretch she is. 

Oh god, she can’t even feel them anymore. Not even bloody paste. Nothing.

Her resistance doesn’t last long though. Whatever perverse power is in control twists her head to survey to the city once more and, joint by joint, deliberate and slow, purposeful, her body walks in that direction.

kick that truck

She does. It folds in around her instep and seems tethered to the planet for a brief second before it lifts off, flying. It soars over the city outskirts before colliding with a building unlucky enough to be taller than others around it. 

There’s no bloom of fire like she expects, no loud resounding crash. It’s all a dreadful quiet, interrupted only by her own body’s breathing.

She thinks she hears sirens. She clings to that thought. It’s a human thought, belonging to a human person.

She’s a person, right?

jump on that house

She does so and with gusto. Her body relishes in the action, and seems to delight in pinning several on-scene officers under her toes, before curling and feeling something sickeningly like bubble wrap pops.

rofl their so tiny

Power lines tangle around her legs, and contrary to her expectations it hurts. Like that time she’d gone to the beach with Robin and got stung by jellyfish.

She fights herself. Fights against the thing making her smile and taunt and kill.

She fails.

makke her beg

Her body complies. It grabs the strawberry blonde that’s waving people through an opening in crushed traffic. Pinches the head between two fingers bigger than she is tall, pulls up and instead of lifting the tiny woman by the head, all she does is wrench her neck. The former blonde’s body flops to the ground, discarded. Someone rushes to it, too late, too small to do anything.

His anguish jerks at the hold the monstrous power has over her; she snaps into control for a millisecond-

I’msorryI’msorryohgodrunrunI’m-”

-and then falls back into that dark ocean, heart freezing over once more. 

It’s not like dreaming anymore. She’s sitting in a theater, eyes taped open, limbs velcroed to her side and a hand jerking her mouth up and down.

plz stop fighting
U like this, right?
then stop
uwu

She hates this.

fuck u
pick tha guy up

The man’s still clutching the dead body, hunched over. Her body cocks her head, as if curious. Then, ignoring all the smoke and chaos around her, she bends over, fingers digging into the ground and just scooping up the area like a gardener would soil.

The man is still immobile, uncaring of his incoming fate.

I’m sorry, she tries to say, but her mouth doesn’t comply. All that comes out is, “You like that, little man?”

put him between ur boobs

She wants to ask why, but the answer soon becomes clear.

Tingling, then aching, and then her breasts feel like they’re on fire as mass pours into them. Her nipples harden to the point of pain and she breaks a little bit more inside, because of course this is happening now. Her body isn’t hers anymore.

omg sexy
goddess
U r sooooo big uwu

She’s disgusting.

She drops the mound between her breasts, a space that could pass for geological cleavage as well as her own, and the man doesn’t fight it. He holds on to the dead woman’s body, his face obscured by dust and blood, and tries to mourn.

He dies instantly as her body grabs her new disgustingly enormous breasts and smashes them together like they’re a pair of cymbals. It’s violent and deadly and pointless. Her soul is flaying with every passing second and all her body does is laugh at the atrocity.

When she separates her boobs to see the results of her handiwork there’s a smear that doesn’t even look real anymore. Something’s pricked the side of her breast, the remains of an underground pipe when she scooped up the ground. 

The piercing throb originating from it is nauseating, a super-sized splinter, but like everything else she’s forced to ignore it.

go find robin

Her trek into downtown whiles away time with more of the same. 

Houses kicked in, people squashed like bugs, cars mashed together like bread loaves. Her body laughs and sneers all the while, saying horrid things she doesn’t mean but can’t stop. At one point she picks up a bus, places it atop a roof and forces the people inside to exit one by one, to be squeezed like grapes over her open mouth.

People don’t taste like anything, she learns, other than bitterness and grit.

She manages another second of true rebellion then, when she has an elderly couple clinging to each other desperately as they both exit the bus. Not stopping to apologize, she cups both of them in her hands and swivels down to the clearest patch of street she can find. 

Her hands open a couple meters from the ground before she loses control once again, and the couple drops to the ground.

wtf!

The whipping return to her previous stance is like battery acid and a hot iron ramming down her gullet. Her eyes prick and sting but something’s superglued her tear ducts shut.

Did they even survive the drop, she wonders.

jesus u suk at this
u r big
stop caring
stop fkkin w me

Go die, she thinks, as vicious a thought as she ever conjured.

pick up the bus

She does so. Some of the riders have left, but she can see some still inside, cowering. Her hand shakes the vehicle like a soda can, and spiderweb cracks form along the glass.

Her face isn’t twisted into the facsimile of a smile anymore at least. It’s empty, void of her torment. She’s tiring them.

lick it

Her tongue coats the bus in her nonexistent saliva. Siding and glass stick to the floor of her mouth, and it’s like licking those stupid pop rocks from her childhood, except worse because this time her mouth doesn’t just feel like it’s bleeding.

now stick it in ur pussy

Again?

Is there even a point to this…

The bus isn’t comfortable. It crumples in on itself when she pulls her vaginal lips apart and tries to shove it in dry, falling apart in her hand like a stack of crackers and even if she’ll never be a normal human again she enjoys this spiteful moment from the laws of physics. 

It hurts like hell’s nails, but she won’t say it’s not worth it.

fuck!

She pulls at the leash around her soul once more, howling, hoping to break free with that opening.

u stupid slut!

In her moment of freedom her eyes turn downtown, to the highrise buildings. Before she loses control once more they zero in on something: a figure – tall, gorgeous, pixie cut – staring out the floor to ceiling window in abject horror.

Robin.

grab her

No…

eat her

No!

step on her, goddess

NO!

:D