I used to keep notebooks full of ideas about giantess stories, but that was back when I wrote smut.
Was that so very long ago? Not at all. I started out writing very crass and wholly sincere smut: I wrote a very earnest, exploratory story about a woman I found physically compelling, from the very lucky structure of her face to the momentarily perfect outline of her body. Beauty is fleeting, is what I’m getting across here, as well as a genetic coincidence with values at the time. I don’t know why that’s an important point to impress just now.
All my ensuing stories followed this theme. Plot was the obligatory foreplay to get the tiny man wedged into a butt, shoved up into a vagina, or popped into a mouth (not in that order). The stories, as I saw it, were all about making up names for a man and a woman, contriving a reason for them to be together—usually parallel to whatever I was doing at the time, like a workplace or college classes—and then all roads led to Rome: the story inevitably drew toward one or both of them achieving orgasm.
That was good enough for some people. Now I write stories that work as well in size-fetish context as they would in, say, speculative fiction. Relationships. Feelings. New workaday conflicts and obstacles based on physical impediments or social mores. Based on what we know about men’s relationships with women, whites’ relationships with blacks, and rich people’s relationships with the impoverished, how would society react toward a new, inherently vulnerable population? There is no answer to this that is so cynical it’s not also realistic and probable.
But in these notebooks, these oldest blank books that have been beaten up through intensive bookbag use and transport, I have my oldest stories as I struggled to come up with original plots. I knew sex was going to happen, and in a few cases the tiny man would die, but the rest of the time he’d become a treasured partner to the generous, libidinous, imaginative woman. Sometimes I wrote out full stories, other times I drew up simple outlines or merely a few lines depicting a scene. Maybe I’d seen a curvy woman struggling with getting something out of her car, and I pictured a tiny man trapped in her panties, under those straining jeans. How did he get there? Was he a prisoner or a partner? Ah, that was another story! But I’d just note a tiny guy in a fat ass and trust that I’d know what to do with that later. Often I didn’t, but whatever.
I also sketched. The drawing depicted here is of a Target worker (hence the red sweater) with a round, jolly bubble-butt that shuddered despite the stern constraint of her wool slacks. It would’ve been inappropriate to take a photo of her butt, but what on earth was to stop me from studying her motions and then running back to my cubicle to sketch her ass from memory? Or is that not much better? I’m sure she wouldn’t recognize herself and nor would anyone else. Probably. It was a pretty singular butt and maybe that would be the giveaway.
So here are a few of my oldest ideas I felt too valuable to lose, utterly of worth to pen and record for posterity.
There’s a pattern here, of course. Aside from the physical impossibility of the basic context, many of these stories are divorced from reality in that they betray how very, very little I understood how people generally operated in society. Yes, it’s fantasy, it’s porn, it’s a genre of writing that permits unrealistic scenarios and improbable outcomes. Would a businesswoman really believe it’s okay to kidnap another human being simply because they’re tiny? Does every woman look at a tiny man and reflexively desire to use them to achieve orgasm? Some might, yes. Maybe 0.001% of the world population, I don’t know.
All these stories centered on all the planets being in alignment, all women bearing the same latent biological imperative, unrealized until they discover an actual tiny man. Is he objectively handsome? Is he friendly, or do they have natural chemistry? None of that mattered: my fantasy was that a woman could find a tiny man and be consumed by the need to force sex upon him. No, he was incidental: the primary drive was her own erotic fulfillment, and the tiny man was a handy physical vehicle to this end. She didn’t love him, she didn’t care what his name was: he was only a freely accessible tool for her purposes.
That was my fantasy, and if I’m completely honest, it’s still plenty charged for me. I would like to be that tiny man on the table, discovered by a young woman who is compelled to thrust her succulent round ass at me. That sounds awesome to me. If I wrote it out now, however, it would be less about the anonymous, brutal sex adventure and would incorporate more complex emotions. She would eventually feel guilty about exploiting a vulnerable adult this way. He would confront what it means to abandon everything he’s ever known or dreamed of, to live in the cleavage of her pert buttocks. The story would never, however, become so realistic as to factor her occasional farts or simply not wiping her anus properly, no risk of botulism. Nothing but sweet flesh, vague floral scents, auras of love and affection, comfortable thresholds of body temperature.
Fantasy excuses quite a lot, and while it may never be counted as high literature with a meaningful commentary upon the human condition, it still satisfies something in me.