Many thanks to Giantess Nyx and Micro K for their assistance with this story.
Scarlett’s unspoken nickname for him was Sasquatch. He wasn’t freakishly tall, probably not much more than six feet, nor were his feet disproportionately large. What was remarkable about him, what provoked Scarlett to near obsession, was his hair. It was everywhere. Thick and dark brown, it flowed scraggily from beneath a cap bearing the logo of a long-vanished tech startup. He wore a mustache and beard, of course, full but more-or-less trimmed. He seemed to always wear a T-shirt and cargo shorts regardless of weather, and Scarlett could see the brown curls coating his legs and arms, spreading across the back of his hands and creeping towards his knuckles.
There was no regularity to her sightings of him on the bus, aside from that they were always during the evening commute. Looking at him now as she approached his seat in the rear of the coach, she estimated that it had been about a month since she had seen him last.
He didn’t look up at Scarlett even as she sat down on the rear bench, perpendicular to his sideways-facing seat. Unlike everyone else, he wasn’t engrossed in his phone. Instead, his large hand gripped a well-abused paperback, the tortured spine bent around itself so that she couldn’t make out the title and could only glimpse the cover illustration, a three-masted sailing ship weathering a gale.
From her vantage point, Scarlett could affect to look out the window while keeping his face almost entirely in view. He almost never took notice of his surroundings or the progress of the bus along its route. She knew he always continued riding past her own stop, and she wondered if he rode it all the way to the end.
She was fascinated by trying to gauge his thoughts from infinitesimal changes in his face, neck, and shoulders. The text must not be very exciting, she thought. His eyes rarely showed surprise and his breathing remained steady. Sometimes his eyes would narrow or his lips would purse slightly, and she guessed he was trying to puzzle something out.
Scarlett smiled to herself as she looked up to see her stop approaching. She gathered her bag and realized she hadn’t looked at her phone once the during the entire ride. As she walked toward the door, she habitually reached into her pocket and gripped her phone. She stepped down to the sidewalk and pulled it out to see that she had missed three messages. That never happened except when she was sleeping. As the bus started moving again, she looked up through the window of the coach to see him looking directly at her.
Weeks went by without another sighting. Scarlett briefly wondered if she had offended him somehow before reassuring herself of her own insignificance in the grand scheme of things. She tried to focus on her studies and her job, but she was constantly distracted by one trivial thing after another. Co-workers, relatives, and social media chirped at her, filling her every stray moment.
One morning bus ride she found herself gazing out the window, trying to recall a memory when she last felt true wonder. It was at camp, that year she joined one of those girl-scout knock-off organizations. Bluebells? Cupcakes? Something like that. She couldn’t remember exactly how it happened that she was wandering in the woods by herself, but back then seven-year-old girls were allowed a much longer leash.
She had gone to the far side of the athletic field, looking for a campfire circle that someone had told her was just a little way down a path. She wandered off the path at some point, but she hadn’t realized it and headed for a clearing she could see through the trees.
Instead of a ring of stones surrounded by crude benches made from logs, Scarlett drifted out into a lake of wildflowers, blue and purple and yellow. Some of them reached her pre-teen waist, and she thought to sit down and look up past the blooms at the trees and sky. She imagined it went on forever, and that she was the first to explore any of it.
Suddenly she heard a deep snuffling sound to her left and she froze. Then a shadow fell over her and she turned to see a deer looking down at her. It was a four-point buck, and she would always wonder what he was thinking during the five seconds he watched her and chewed a mouthful of grass before twisting away and disappearing into the trees.
On her lunch hour that afternoon, she started to open Google Earth to see if she could locate that meadow again, but she let cynicism discourage her and Facebook distract her. And then it was time to go home.
As she neared the back of the bus, she discovered that the only open seat was next to him. Sasquatch. She thought she might have passed an open seat near the front, but if she turned around now it would be obvious that she was avoiding him. Had he seen her yet? He was reading a magazine, but she couldn’t be sure of anything. She inhaled deeply and walked forward to take the seat.
He looked up and met her eyes long enough to recognize her as a regular. A cordial smile, and then he returned to his magazine. It was an old National Geographic, creased and worn, with an unfamiliar typeface. Faded photos depicted the underwater caves of Mexico.
Scarlett considered her phone for less than two seconds before dropping it in her purse. She looked out the window for a while, stealing glances at the magazine while pretending not to read it. She was sure she was failing at this, but it was better than dwelling on the heat from his thigh against hers and his massive upper arm resting almost atop her shoulder.
Finally she took a long, direct look at the evocative photos, and when she was sure he had noticed her, she said, “It looks magical.”
The swiftness of his reply surprised and disarmed her. “I think so, too.”
“Have you ever done that?” she plunged forward.
“You mean, diving? No. Always wanted to try it, though.”
“Why haven’t you?”
He gave her an appraising look, and she felt as if she had stepped through some underbrush and fallen into a well or a mineshaft, looking up at his attentive face as she receded. His smile returned her to her seat.
“Maybe I will someday,” he said wistfully. “What about you?”
“Me? What?” she stammered. “Oh, no. I’ve never, I don’t, I don’t do anything like that.”
He gave her a quizzical look, and she wanted to die.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said finally. “I’m sure you’ll find your way.”
Way to where? she thought but dared not ask. She hoped he would go back to the magazine, but he was still kindly searching her face.
“I’m Tom,” he said deeply. “Tom Fir.”
“Oh, I’m Scarlett,” she said. If he felt slighted that she didn’t give her last name, he didn’t show it.
“Nice to meetcha,” he said. He looked back at the National Geographic and turned a page. Without taking his eyes from the article, he reached a hand down, fished something out of his pocket, and popped it into his mouth.
Scarlett looked out the window again. What am I doing? she thought. She never talked to strangers on the bus, not that long. Maybe that should change.
She turned to Tom and asked, “So what do you do?” He blinked at her. “You’re not still in school?” she added quickly.
His eyes became distant briefly. “Sometimes I think I’d like to go back to school,” he said, “but then I realize I probably just want to be school-age again.” She returned his wry smile without fully understanding it.
“I work for the Park Service now and then,” he said. “Gets me out of the house. What about you?”
“Well, I’m still in school,” she said, stifling a blush as he nodded knowingly. “Dietetics. Not Dianetics.” The joke seemed to bounce off him, but she had plenty of material. “I also work at a food bank. Mostly processing, but sometimes I get to make deliveries.”
“I bet that feels good.”
“It does,” she said genuinely.
He smiled and shifted the candy or whatever he was sucking on from one side of his mouth to the other. She caught a whiff of cinnamon, a favorite of hers.
“What parks do you work in?” she asked.
“Oh, all over,” he said. “Wherever they need me. It’s kind of like getting paid to go camping.” Scarlett suspected he wasn’t as practiced as talking about himself as she was.
“That sounds nice,” she said, hoping to keep the momentum. The cinnamon scent was teasing her palate.
“It is if you like measuring topsoil,” he said without a trace of irony. “It feels more important when you remember everybody has to survive somehow, and that there’s a place in this world for everyone.”
At first she thought he was making a joke, but she didn’t feel like laughing. She just looked into his eyes for a moment, then turned to the window.
With a start, Scarlett realized she no longer recognized the bus route. “Omigosh!” she exclaimed, “I’ve missed my stop!”
Tom looked out the window. “It’s cool,” he said. “Just get off up there and cross the street. Should be one going the other way in about fifteen minutes.”
She returned his kindly smile. “Thanks,” she said, gathering her things. Her gaze dropped to his pocket. Impishly, she asked, “What are those?”
He pursed his lips, dug his finger into his pocket, and drew out a faded tin. “Want one?”
Glancing at the approaching bus stop, she nodded quickly. He pried open the tin to reveal a half-dozen irregular sand-colored lozenges, then tipped one into her waiting palm.
She passed it between her lips without hesitation. Her head filled with waves of cinnamon, cloves, and memories of Christmas. “I love cinnamon,” she said.
He cocked his head. “Cinnamon, huh?” he said. “Never would’ve guessed.”
The bus slowed and then stopped. “Thanks,” she said, getting up. “See you later.”
He nodded and smiled. At last she turned away and made for the exit. She didn’t look back through the window after she disembarked, so sure was she that he was still watching her.
A haze of childlike wonder suffused Scarlett, and after the bus departed she drifted across the roadway without looking for oncoming traffic. Fortunately, she was quite alone with her thoughts.
She was unprecedentedly pleased with herself. Sas—Tom was definitely a strange guy, but she had held her own and now she could look forward to a monthly glimpse into a world less pedestrian than her own.
Absently, she sat on the bench, leaned her head back against the wall of the shelter, and gazed up at the stand of conifers presiding over the neighborhood. How long have they been there? she wondered. Longer than I’ve been alive, surely. What must they have seen?
As Scarlett contemplated the trees’ age, they seemed to grow away from her, stretching up into time. She felt so brief and inconsequential compared to these mature organisms, wizened and weathered.
Only when her shoes slipped off her feet and clattered onto the pavement did Scarlett notice that something was very wrong. She lurched forward and looked down to see her bare feet disappearing into her collapsing pants. Her shirt slipped off her shoulders, and when she twisted to her right, her bra failed to twist with her. She glanced up one last time at the indifferent trees as her now-tent-like shirt enshrouded her and eclipsed the world.
Naked and stunned, she instinctively hugged herself as her mind grappled with what her senses were reporting. Everything had become fantastically enormous, which was absurd, but she resented the implication that it was somehow less absurd that she had become fantastically tiny. But no matter how many times she blinked her eyes, she was literally faced with proof that she could now fit comfortably within one of her own bra cups.
The prospect of being naked in public briefly became Scarlett’s most urgent concern. What could she possibly wear now? Part of a sock? She deflated further when she realized she had no possible way to fashion any such makeshift garment. A hysterical giggle escaped her as she imagined herself running blindly along the sidewalk, a single flopping sock propelled by two tiny bare feet. Her brief mirth tailed off into a whimper, and she buried her face in her hands.
She started to tell herself not to panic, but then she realized she wasn’t having any of the familiar panic attack symptoms. Shock and alarm, yes, but she wasn’t shaking and her mind wasn’t racing as it had in the past. Something was steadying her; a warm hold on her, emanating from the back of her throat.
What had happened to the candy, or lozenge, or whatever? She had only begun to smooth away its edges when she had shrunk into her clothes. She would have remembered swallowing something that big, even if it had shrunk with her. She could only conclude that it must have dissolved as rapidly as she had dwindled.
As sudden scraping noise echoed off the paved floor of the bus shelter, and through the tent of her shirt Scarlett detected a huge shadow and even a displacement of air. A turbulent rustling swept through her shirt, and she was knocked off her feet as it lifted up and away. She landed on her stomach on the shelter bench, and she could sense some immense creature looming behind and over her. Out of sheer survival instinct she pushed herself to her feet and started to run, but five log-sized fingers curled around her and pressed her into a palm wider than she was tall.
Immured in overwhelmingly strong flesh, Scarlett felt obliged to offer a token resistance, but again the warmth in her throat and chest calmed her into acceptance. She focused on deep breathing as the giant hand lifted toward her captor’s face.
Scarlett would never be able to satisfactorily determine if she actually knew that Tom Fir had grabbed her before he turned her around so she could peer up into his enormous slate-blue eyes, but after a single second under that giant gaze all urgency deserted her and she went limp in his grip.
His fingers closed around her and blocked her view, then he released her and she plummeted into his shirt pocket. Landing horizontally at the bottom, she glanced up to see the flap being buttoned closed. In the darkness, she let her head rest against the flannel and took in his scent.
It was similar to her prior experiences of male sweat, but underneath was a musky note, like loam. His chest surged against her when he breathed, and his heart thrummed like a subterranean drum.
A childish thought spoke to her; He’s come to rescue me. Lying bare-assed in his shirt pocket, she indulged this notion as he lurched to one side and she heard a sharp crackling, like a stiff sail being filled with wind.
Scarlett was rolled against the front of his pocket as Tom apparently bent forward and back up, making several dips. He’s collecting my clothes, she thought, how considerate.
Then she realized: He already had a plastic bag with him. He was prepared for this.
The lurching stopped and Scarlett was rolled back into Tom’s chest as he settled into a steady stride. Where is he taking me? she wondered. Home, I guess. His home.
She thought about standing up to see if she could reach the top of the pocket. He might feel her moving, but she decided she didn’t have anything to lose by trying.
Her footing was very shaky, but the front of the pocket was tight enough that she could pull herself upright. He didn’t alter his pace, so she proceeded. Her outstretched fingers just reached the top of the pocket, but she had no confidence that she could pull herself all the way up.
Girl, you’re in deep shit, Scarlett thought, but she didn’t feel nearly that despondent. She let herself slowly slide back down to the bottom of Tom’s pocket, then she lay her head against his chest and closed her eyes. In no time at all, the swaying of his stride rocked her to sleep.
Scarlett woke with a start. She was still in Tom’s shirt pocket, but he was no longer walking. She pressed her face against the front of his pocket to see what she could through the fabric. She thought she could make out his thick arm reaching forward, and she heard his key tumble the raucous lock of an impossibly large door.
Tom opened and passed through the door, his boots resounding on the hardwood floor. Scarlett tried to discern the layout and furniture, but he was moving too quickly. More loud thuds and what looked like a hallway whipping by, then Tom finally halted in a dark room. She strained to glean some detail until he switched on a lamp, temporarily blinding her.
Before Scarlett’s eyes could fully recover, the pocket was invaded by Tom’s grasping fingers, which quickly found her and lifted her out. She tried to look up to read his face, but he tumbled her into a glass jar and she had to focus on landing without injury.
Tom set the jar on his desktop and stood over it, looking down as Scarlett found her feet. As soon as she stood and looked back up at him, he turned and exited the room, his heavy strides vibrating through everything. Her brief glimpse of his face told her nothing.
She was in an old pickle jar. It was dry but it still smelled of vinegar. Peering through the cloudy glass, she took in every magnified detail of what appeared to be Tom’s study. Her shrunken perspective made everything both distant and overwhelming. Piles of ancient magazines on the desk threatened to topple into the pickle jar. A Macintosh computer that looked like it belonged in a museum hulked in the corner of the desk. A trail of small seedling planters led from the edge of the desk and jumped up to fill a windowsill. The desktop itself was grooved and gouged, and if it had ever been varnished the veneer had worn away long ago.
A dark green easy chair loomed beside the desk, close enough for Scarlett to entertain the fantasy of leaping from the desktop into the cushioned seat, if she ever got out of the jar. The lamp that Tom had switched on stood on the floor in the corner, with a secondary bulb on a flexible mount currently aimed at the chair but which could just as easily be pointed at the desk.
A pair of deep bookshelves faced each other from opposite walls, every cavity crammed with books, binders, cartons, boxes, and other miscellaneous containers. Across from the doorway a shadowed recess hinted at a closet, but another stack of papers or folders partially obstructed Scarlett’s view.
A sharp thud sounded through the walls of the house, making Scarlett flinch so hard she nearly fell to her knees. Listening closely, she detected a steady rush that she eventually identified as running water. She started to wonder if she smelled of pickle juice now.
An exasperated guffaw burst from her chest, and a part of her mind began to dissociate from her sensory experience. This is absurd, it said. I am not two inches tall, naked, and trapped in a pickle jar in Sasquatch’s house. I must have been in an accident of some kind, and this is all a hallucination.
Scarlett was far from convinced by this inner voice, and she rested her forehead against the cool glass and concentrated on finding patterns in the grain of the desktop. There were no patterns, just endless twisting paths in the wood.
The running water shut off abruptly, and Scarlett’s breathing quickened. The glass seemed to leach away her body heat, and she stood up and rubbed her arms and thighs. She suddenly needed to pee. A wave of resentment washed over her, and she thought, What the hell, this place already stinks. She squatted and squirted. She regretted her decision as soon as the first trickle touched her foot, but it was too late to stop.
She heard his approaching footfalls, but Scarlett was still squatting when Tom re-entered the study. He was carrying a small plastic bowl, but she scarcely noticed it because for her first forewarned, unobstructed view of him since she had shrunk, Tom was almost naked.
She slowly stood and didn’t even register that she was still dripping on her thigh. Her jaw dropped as she watched him approach the desk and set the bowl down next to the jar, his furry arm and shoulder extending powerfully. He hadn’t looked at her since his return, and she stared without reservation.
Dark brown hair coated much of his body, not terribly thick but never quite barren anywhere, either. It was thickest on his head and face, with a thin pelt on his chest shaped like a funnel pointing downward to a narrow path that ran over his stout belly and started spreading again as it reached his navy-blue boxers. Tufts of curls dotted the sides of his shoulders and upper arms before becoming the farmer’s tan she already knew.
Scarlett was so transfixed that she didn’t even flinch when Tom reached for the jar and wrapped his fingers around it. He lifted the jar and spilled Scarlett into his other hand. His skin was warm and soft, and it smelled clean.
He rolled her over in his palm so that she was facing him as he brought her to his flaring nostrils. She again tried to read his face, but it was quickly lost behind his looming nose. “Hey!” she cried, instinctively kicking her legs into his thick mustache.
Caught between his warm hand and his warm face, Scarlett was chilled by the cool air rushing past her as Tom inhaled deeply through his nose, which was crowded into her torso. He then lowered her enough to fix her with a puzzled look that made her feel even smaller than she already was. He lifted the jar to his nose and sniffed it, as well. He shrugged with his eyebrows as he set the jar back on the desk.
Even though he was holding her in his hand and had looked at her when he smelled her, Scarlett felt as if Tom didn’t recognize her, not as a person, anyway. She felt more like a specimen. She stopped looking at his impossibly broad chest and tried to find his eyes beyond his thick beard. “What—” she shouted up, only to be muffled as his thumb shifted to press down upon her clavicle and cover her face.
She reached up with her arms to push back against his thumb until she realized her legs were dangling free and that his thumb was the only thing keeping her from falling. Then she felt fingertips from his other hand probe her breasts and belly, pinch her buttocks and thighs, and finally stroke her pussy.
Scarlett dissociated again. She knew exactly what was happening, and how she should react, but her ridiculous helplessness mocked any protest she might make. Her body responded of its own volition to his touch, writhing away without considering whether it might actually be inciting to Tom.
She was on the verge of checking out, slipping into a catatonic state, when his fingertips withdrew and his hand dropped. His thumb released her and she rolled out of his grasp into what she quickly realized was the plastic bowl. It contained warm water and soap suds, and she was momentarily grateful for a horizon below which she could keep her gaze.
A sharp creak from above heralded the floor lamp being re-positioned to aim at the bowl, and Scarlett looked up to see the glare blocked by a sage-green washcloth descending toward her. She didn’t move as Tom dipped the cloth in the water behind her, then scooped her up in it.
The enclosing warmth of the washcloth was compounded by the directed heat of the flexible lamp. As the washing/fondling began in earnest, Scarlett closed her eyes against the soap and the scrutiny. Once again, she tried to convince herself she was dreaming, this time imagining she was at a luxury spa, receiving the attention of irresistibly strong masseurs and skin-care technicians. That lasted until she actually gave a moan of pleasure, which Tom acknowledged with a thunderous grunt.
She now faced the fact that she had to deal with this absurd nightmare. She tabled the question of how this was happening and focused on why. Up until today, the notion that Tom might desire her sexually seemed as fantastic as the possibility of someone being shrunk to the height of two inches. As his enormous fingertips lingered in their pinch of her thigh, Scarlett inhaled deeply and found his face with her determined eyes.
She had seen male lust before, or least thought she had. In her experience, men overcome by passion appeared either ravenous or smug. In neither mode did she feel truly seen; her suitors seemed more focused on their own anticipations than on her reactions. Tom exhibited none of that narcissism now. He patiently observed her responses to each of his probes, looking not only into her face but also somehow into her past. Scarlett felt him reaching into forgotten memories, massaging their meaning and weighing their inertia. She felt like a rough stone being jostled to the soil’s surface by the flexing of tremendous roots.
When his thumb again pressed on her belly, she wrapped both of her legs around it and arched her back away from him. Her breaths came quickly, but she never lost sight of his face, and she couldn’t be sure whether it was her exertions that drew the tip of his tongue out from between his massive lips or if it was his tongue’s appearance that drove her over the edge.
Eventually her legs released his thumb, and she recovered her breath. Scarlett expected to see some smirk of satisfaction from him, but he maintained his expression of patient curiosity. She suddenly lost all composure. “Why are you doing this?” she cried.
Her outburst didn’t seem to surprise Tom or cause him to hesitate. Instead he lowered the washcloth into the plastic bowl and simply held her motionless in his grasp, as if he were waiting for her to elaborate. Finally, he gave a half-smile, and a chill pierced Scarlett’s heart as she realized this colossal creature was about to address her.
“You,” he rumbled like a thunderclap along a narrow valley, “took my fancy. So I took you.” His half-smile did not waver as he licked his lips.
Scarlett’s skin buzzed as she grappled with this gnomic pronouncement. I did nothing to provoke this! How could I be held responsible for his “fancy”? Or…did he mean the cinnamon candy or whatever? But he offered it first! This was ridiculous.
He must be joking, thought Scarlett. She searched Tom’s face for some sign of jesting or teasing, but he remained unironically fascinated with her and her reactions. He was holding her underneath her arms, pinching her rib cage between the tips of his index finger and thumb. She set her shoulders and braced herself by placing her hands on top of his fingers, then took a deep breath.
“This is—aahh!” she started to shout, but her protest was immediately silenced as he brought her to his face and thrust most of her body between his lips and into his cavernous mouth.
Scarlett found herself face-down on Tom’s tongue, and no matter how hard she tried to push off with her arms, the slimy muscle slithered and bucked, keeping her in the dark. Her ankles were pinched gently but firmly between his lips, and somehow she found the presence of mind to notice his whiskers tickling her feet. Using his grip as leverage, she thrashed her body and pounded on his tongue with her fists, hoping that she was ruining the experience for him.
Tom released Scarlett’s ankles from his lips and slammed her to the roof of his mouth with his tongue, driving her legs apart. A deep moan like rutting whalesong surrounded her and rattled her bones. Sensing the depth of Tom’s gullet in front of her, Scarlett arched away, scraping her back and ass on his ridged palate. Then his tongue truly awoke.
It was animalistic in its ferocity, but it retained a human cunning in anticipating her contortions. Wrestling in the blind, Scarlett vainly tried to avoid being pinned. When she was inevitably defeated, she went completely limp as the pressing muscle found all her tender spots. Less enclosing than the washcloth, Tom’s tongue was fiendishly more supple, gripping her thighs, lapping her vulva, and savoring her breasts all at the same time.
With each surge, Tom gave a small grunt, which of course resounded in Scarlett’s gut. She finally succumbed to being the object of his appetites and let herself bathe in his saliva. She had no strength left, but some basic reflect spurred her limbs to embrace the Conqueror Tongue, riding the tide.
Scarlett was practiced at diverting herself by watching boys take their pleasure from her, and she fell into this rhythm now. Despite being unable to see a thing, she was in greater intimacy with Tom’s desires than she had ever been with anyone else’s. She imagined looking at Tom from the outside, watching his eyes, his nose, his jaw as he savored her tiny helpless body in his mouth. When his nostrils flared, she heard the rush of wind above and behind her head. When his bearded chin shifted, she felt the rippling of his taste buds caressing her skin.
Tom’s tongue rolled to one side and Scarlett rolled with it, facing the roof of his mouth. Still imagining his exterior expression, she raised one hand to stroke his palate as she might stroke his face were she full-size. His tongue lifted her close, and she had the impulse to kiss the sensitive membrane. Then the front of his tongue bulged upwards, lifting her legs and dropping her head. She whimpered “no” as her head and shoulders slid back and down into his tight gullet.
Constricted from all sides, Scarlett couldn’t inflate her lungs—not that there was any air. Or light. She didn’t think she was going to drown so much as be buried alive, entombed deep within Tom. This is it, she thought. Goodbye.
She barely registered when the pressure on her head relented as she emerged into his stomach. More immediate was the warm humidity that enveloped her descending body and filled her sinus and throat. It tingled sharply, triggering her sneeze and cough reflexes, but she was unable to expel anything. Behind the tingles she tasted cinnamon, which she let pacify her.
Scarlett fell as a dead-weight into the viscous pool at the bottom of Tom’s stomach. The fluids swirled around and dripped upon her body, prickling her skin as it coated her. She slumped against the convulsing wall, idly wondering why she wasn’t in pain. In fact, she felt numb all over, as if she were swimming in Novocain.
She brought her hand to touch her face, but she couldn’t feel either, even as she knew her hand must be flat against her forehead. She tried poking her own eye—nothing. She lost sensation in all her joints, as if she had become a quadruple-amputee. Panic finally broke through the cinnamon haze, and she wriggled upright, trying to reach out and prop herself against the stomach wall, but her limbs just weren’t there. She toppled forward and she tried to cry out, but her jaw fell off and the back of her skull slid away and her brain spewed forth in a cloud of syrupy mist.
End of Part 1
4 thoughts on “The Circle of Lust”
Reblogged this on sz journey and commented:
I AM HONORED TO HAVE PLAYED A SMALL PART IN THIS SEXY, SEXY PIECE
I can say with complete certainty that I have never read a story like yours. I don’t seek out vore stories, since my vore predilections are very particular and it’s difficult to find fiction that satisfies them. But I’m not reading your story for “vore fiction”. I’m reading it because it’s a story you wrote, and I like a lot of your work.
This is many stories wrapped in one. I could say that this is the story of a monster that set out to capture his latest victim, and a lot of what has happened could be said to fit that model. He traveled, he saw her, he coveted her, he took her. He did things to her human beings don’t tend to survive. But I don’t feel I’m reading the story of a killer and his victim.
I like the scent of cinnamon permeating nearly every scene here. Cinnamon is a very comforting scent, so combining with every terrifying event she’s experiencing does something to season them with a very strong, positive charge. It smells nice. It’s like stitching a nightmare with golden thread. It looks nice.
I wasn’t sure about his tilting a jar where she had pissed into his palm, but in the end it didn’t matter, because he washed his food before he ate it. If that is what happened. I’m not sure yet.
But my favorite part is your description of the effect he has on her when she watches him, and how he’s completely distracting, so much that she notices nothing she usually would. That is a very familiar experience reserved for very few people in each person’s life. Or that’s what I’ve experienced.
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I feel like I have to ask: did you read Part 2?
I’m intrigued that you seem to be evaluating this story from a predator’s perspective, looking into Tom’s motives more than Scarlett’s. This adds to a series of ruminations I hope to give their own blog post.
The scent of the lozenges is completely subjective: whatever scent provides the prey with the greatest sense of comfort and solace. In Scarlett’s case it happens to be cinnamon.
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Not yet, but I have it earmarked for future reading. Soon-like.
My perspective is the predator’s perspective. That is what I connect with, and what interests me. That is why it’s difficult to find excellent giantess stories, because in so many of them the giantess is an idiot too busy fucking buildings to have a thought in her head. I may not know your predator’s thoughts, but I can put myself in his shoes because his actions intersect with mine in (what I hope is) purpose and effect.
Excellent on the lozenges. That is really nice to know. Brilliant detail.
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