Frying onions and scallions in butter… mmm, nothing smells like home more than this to me. Sure, you’ve got your dense country bread, you’ve got whatever nasty soup your grandmama made, but for me? Sauteeing onions is the smell that tells me I’m home. It’s time to get comfortable, it’s okay to relax. I listen to the oil sizzling in the skillet and I can’t help smiling.


The three women giggled and jostled against each other. They had all three hair colors: a brunette bob framing flashing eyes, curly red hair bouncing around freckles, and long spills of blonde over bare shoulders. All their shoulders were bare, in fact, as all three women were completely nude. The sun glowed on their shoulders and shone on their teeth as they horsed around. Long, bare limbs swung through the summer atmosphere, uncoordinated and eager. Bare feet rose and fell, sailed up and slammed into the ground, with darling pink toes curling and flexing unconsciously.

The brunette shoved the redhead, and her bare butt rubbed against a building. Into it. Through it. The narrow crack of her ass ran 20’ long between two pert buttocks that caved in two floors of office space without resistance. The redhead laughed, pulled herself clumsily from the collapsing skyscraper, and shoved at the brunette, who was quick to dodge the huge palms flying at her like passenger jets. Still, in dodging, her long feet scrambled to retain balance, planting and replacing themselves rapidly up the avenue. Cars were flattened easily, sheets of crinkly colored metal in deep oval craters.

Pedestrians did what pedestrians will in these situations: screaming, flowing, and dying despite their efforts. Some stared up at the three gigantic, naked, beautiful young women who romped and teased each other as though oblivious to the city they were destroying.


I like a dessert wine, I always have done. Tracy likes Chardonnay or Pinot Noir. She doesn’t much care about vintage or terroir or any of that snooty crap, she just likes what she likes. Well, if she likes me, she’s got to have good taste, right?

But I like the sweeter wines she doesn’t care for. I like to sip at a German eiswein, for example, or a French Riesling. Tonight I’m having a Moscato, and there was a time I could have finished the bottle by myself. Not so long ago, to think about it.

There’s my little Moscato, and there’s her big-ass Chardonnay. That’s another difference between us: I don’t like spumante, but Tracy enjoys the bubbles. I think that’s cute.

I can see my reflection in her round glass, almost a snifter. I look up and see my body distorted in the sphere, golden bubbles building around my face and floating away.


The redhead was dragging her toes through a slow-moving crowd of people. Under her sole, her shadow fell upon a delirious mob. Specks of people looked left and right, started to run and doubled back, screaming incessantly. The woman flexed her toes and carefully slid her foot back, just the tips of her toes touching the pavement. She grinned to watch four or five long streaks of red painting the street, alternating with narrow rows of dazed survivors. The tiny dots paused as though catching their breath. They began to stir. They picked up activity, taking stock of their environment, and freaked out all over again, to the delight of the redheaded woman.

“Hey guys, watch this,” called out the brunette to her friends. She had a sharp smile, a smirk with one eyebrow raised. She always looked as though she’d just thought of something naughty and was daring herself to go through with it. She always looked like this.

They looked. The brunette was standing behind a skyscraper that almost came up to her chin. Her slim fingers were cupping her largish breasts on either side of the building. She rested her sternum against a corner and bit her lip. Her friends watched the lights going on and off in the tiny windows, silhouettes running in and out of view. Two tiny specks threw themselves from two windows and drifted through the empty space like motes of dust.

“Oh, baby,” said the brunette. Her palms tilted and pressed the outsides of her boobs. The fleshy spheres flattened around the concrete and steel edifice, then there was a dull roar like a cough, recorded and slowed down. Clouds of gray, glittering dust filled the air around the tremendous breasts, which sighed and resumed their rounder dimensions, pouring into the office floors. Half in, half out.

The brunette laughed and pushed them all the way in.


Tracy taught me to like jazz. That’s to say we learned about it together, but it was her idea to pursue it. Neither of us had listened to it before, on our own, before we met. Maybe we weren’t ready for it? One day we’d finished a nice lunch at a Turkish restaurant in her town… well, our town, now. I’ve lived here since she brought me 15 years ago, and I have no desire to leave. We finished lunch and she took me for a stroll, and we found ourselves in front of a record store. On a pleasant afternoon like that, it seemed only proper to go in and look around.

I watched her rifle through used rock ‘n’ roll on vinyl. I was surprised how many bands we had in common. But I remember this really compelling riff playing over the store speakers. I asked her what it was, and she didn’t know so she asked the staff. It was Herbie Hancock’s “Cantaloupe Island.” We picked up the album it was on, but the staff asked her to wait a second, went back and put on Dave Brubeck’s “Take Five.” She laughed, delighted, and bought that too.

I consider “Cantaloupe Island” to be our song. Tracy does this little dance to it that drives me wild, this slow, rolling, writhing dance. It turns me on immediately, every time. I could be having the worst day, just in a foul, black mood, but she sets me on the edge of the bed and rubs those long, long thighs against each other right in front of me, sways her big, round butt over me and that’s all she wrote. I’m hers.


The redhead tried the brunette’s trick. It happened that her breasts hadn’t developed to that degree, but her nipples were plenty hard so she poked out all the windows of another building. She never blinked, intensely concentrating on accuracy as her chest swayed back and forth against the skyscraper. It was rough going at first, but she got the hang of it and left three nearly perfectly straight rows of huge, round dots in the side of the building.

The brunette had lost interest in her progress after the first row, instead choosing to sit her bare ass down on a hotel. She slowly squatted, gradually releasing more and more of her weight upon the structure. Floors exploded and combusted beneath her buttocks, spraying debris and tiny people against her bare ankles. She watched the activity between her inner thighs, watched the destruction erupting beneath her pubic hair.

The blonde was still interested. She crouched, sticking her own round butt out at another building, to get a close-up view of the redhead’s project. Her blue eyes were wide and rapt, witnessing how her friend’s erect nipples pummeled into the architecture without the slightest resistance. The woman’s pink nubs stood out, proud and unyielding, and they blasted through the outer wall every single time with a tiny pow! The blonde wore a half-smile, the tip of her tongue ran over her lower lip. In one second she saw a tiny little man clinging to the ridge of her friend’s nipple, but before she could say anything, the man and the nipple plunged right back into the building. Only the nipple came out. The blonde was hypnotized by this incredible little drama.

The people in the other building, behind her, stared out of their windows and into the tan acute triangle that framed her puckered anus. They were hypnotized by the rays and folds of skin that could have embedded them easily, grooves that ran down and met and disappeared where the young woman’s poop came out. The tremendous butt loomed so close to their building, in fact, that if she did poop right now, it would’ve struck their building. It likely would’ve shattered the windows and piled inside, burying them with their desks and computers.

They were hypnotized by the surreality of this.


Sure, I miss my former life. I didn’t have a lot going on, but I miss what little I had. I was about to start college and had no idea what I was going to do. No direction, no real passion for anything. I liked to drink and I hoped to get laid, but I had no plans beyond that.

Now there’s enough booze to drown in and more sex than I know what to do with. Once I stopped worrying about those, my curiosity about the world opened up. Tracy and I travel about every other year. I’m not earning any money, but I really don’t cost any, either. She calls me her “little parasite,” teasingly.

I read everything I can get my hands on, to provide interesting things to talk about. I never say no to any movie she wants to see. I know how to make her laugh, too. I love to hear her laugh, like when I’m lying on her chest, listening to her breathe, feeling her heartbeat. I’ll crack some stupid little joke and my whole world erupts in her laughter. She’s a great audience. I’m really glad she selected me.

No, I am.


The redhead brushed ringlets from her jade eyes with a slim pinkie. “When are you gonna get some? We’ve got ten minutes till we have to go back,” she told the blonde.

“She won’t.” The brunette was sitting Indian-style in an intersection, having corralled a large crowd of weeping, desperate people within the circus of her legs. Her bob fell around her face as she studied the tiny people. “She’s a pussy.”

Frowning, the blonde picked out a building across the street from where she stood. “Here,” she announced, “watch this.” The roof came up to her mouth. She wasn’t sure what she was going to do, she just knew it had to be interesting or her friends would laugh at her. They’d come out of the program and tell everyone at school what a pussy she was.

She noticed a tiny person standing on the corner of the rooftop ledge. A little man in a white shirt and tie, an office drudge. She focused her eyes upon him, bringing her lips nearly to the edge of the building, placing him right beneath the tip of her nose. He was waving at her.

She whispered to him, “What do you want?” And she did what her friends would never do: she listened to him.

He told her what she was really doing. This wasn’t a computer program. These were real people in another part of her world. Families were dying, people who’d lived and worked for comfort and safety.

She blinked at him, long lashes swiping through the air. She told him he was wrong, but she looked at her friends, watched them laughing as they kicked at buildings and crushed screaming mobs under foot and under butt. All the blood drained from her face, and she swept the little man into her palm, cradled him against her warm, soft breast, and ran out of the city, sobbing jaggedly.

She ran to the collection platform early, resized herself fully and her little man partially: rather than a speck, he was the size of her finger. He fit in her pocket. His name was Mark.

“I’m Tracy,” she told him.

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