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Page history last edited by PBworks 13 years, 10 months ago

I wrote this giantess story years and years ago, when I first discovered the weirder side of the Web and wanted to stake my claim as a fellow weirdo. I hope it doesn't suck too much.




End Times

by Oblimo


I survived the End Times for three reasons: I thought fast on my feet, I knew the secret of controlling fear, and I could fuck a woman six ways to Sunday, even if she was 12 feet tall.


I whisked the monofilament dew collector up and over the field of wild grass, waiting for twilight and my stalker to finally reveal herself. The sun sank below the tree line, its direct and deadly glare hidden by low-orbit reflectors, remnants of an earlier time I barely remembered.


She’s taking too long, I realized, unloading camping equipment from my backpack. Maybe I did lose her after all.


I just finished hydrating supper when a deep voice echoed across the clearing. "Found you, tricky devil!"


A huge figure stepped out from the far tree line, a towering silhouette in the rapidly fading light. It took an aggressive step forward, but stopped as the grass rippled as if caught in a sudden breeze and a shiny, filmy globe glommed onto its lower leg. "What’s this?" came the voice, lighter and curious.


"My dew web," I said, stepping away from my precious equipment, hoping she would take more interest in me than my gear. "That’s enough water to last me an entire day, clinging to your calf."


"More gadgets?" The voice exchanged its earlier bravado for bemusement. "Boys and their toys."


With the sun now below the horizon, my camp-globe winked on automatically, bathing the field and the two of us in its soft green luminescence.


My stalker’s hair, color uncertain in the green gloaming, fell about her high-cheeked face in long, tight cornrows, curling across her wide shoulders, just tickling the swell of her mammoth bosom tucked into the pelt of a buck elk. The entire skin of a 800 pound stag just barely fit around her chest, held in place by the buck’s antlers, impromptu bra-straps. Her sculpted abdomen tapered down into a proportionately wasp waist, although it looked broader than my shoulders. A bearskin wrapped around her curvy hips, the head of the Kodiak resting almost jauntily on a creamy-dark thigh. Her smooth, toned legs somehow managed to reach the ground although her belly button (an outie about the size of my fist) rose above my head.


I must have cut a far less interesting figure with my salt-and-pepper hair, pre-Morbius physique, and poly-alloy fatigues. Still, years in the bush (no pun intended) had made me wiry and ready.


She reached down and plucked the dew web from her calf, almost daintily. It rolled into a silvery ball of water in her hand. She brought it to her face—


"Wait," I said.


— and kissed it, lush lips parted. The globe of water collapsed like a balloon as she drank it down.


"I needed that," I continued, calmly indignant. "The next safe waterhole is over 15 clicks away."


"A quick jog for me," my visitor said, playing with the gossamer web with her fingers. A flick, and it flew away into the night, lost forever.


"I needed that, too," I said quietly.


She stared down at me from across the field for a long while. "You’re not running this time. Do we fight?"


"I hope not," I replied as glibly as I could. "I’d lose."


She shifted her weight, the roundness of her inner thigh peeking out of the bearskin wraparound, and looked off into the darkness. "You’re not like the other gullivers," she sighed. "You just growl at them and they jump like jackrabbits or pull a retro-macho freak-out and you crush them without any fun at all."


"I’ve come from the east coast. Spent a few years in No Man’s Country," I said, trying to distract her with tales of distant lands.


She snapped out of her reverie, but in the wrong direction. "I’m going to kill you now, you know."


"Why?" It was all I could think to say.


Just three steps brought her yards closer across the field. "Grovel!" she growled, more savage than a panther.


I could see my death in her eyes. And maybe something else?


"No," I said. "I don’t Cat-and-Mouse."


A hesitation. "Then run, weakling, or do you think you can out-fight a woman?" She crossed the clearing in a heartbeat, a blur of cornrow braids in the faint light, crouched to pounce.


Even as she gathered her energy to strike, I stood my ground, silent.


"Why do you not run?" she hissed, the fingers of her left hand sinking into the ground like driven spikes, her other arm reaching behind her, her broad back curved into a feline ellipse.


I stepped forward, the tip of my nose inches from her trembling chin. Her face seemed to fill the world. Her braids coiled down like possessive snakes. Her lips parted, revealing a flashing hint of teeth. The caress of her breath gave me goose-bumps.


"If I don’t have your help tomorrow," I said slowly, "I might die of thirst before I reach the next safe waterhole."


She rocked back, and fell heavily onto her heavenly derriere. The ground shook slightly. She reclined, propping herself up with her hands, and stretched out her legs. She surrounded me. I could feel her inner thighs against my legs (pressing their incredible weight from my foot to my knee), but her bikini top, almost as wide as I was tall, dominated my view.


Her chest shook as she held back laughter for a long, breathless moment.


She sighed, deep and purring, her gaze glittering with delight. "What kind of wonder are you, my tricky devil?"


I smiled, bobbed my head in respect, and sat down. She crossed her legs around me, sitting up. I could feel their softness, power, and heat, even through my fatigues. To look at me eye-to-eye, she leaned down, planting her arms on either side. Her braids curtained down around us.


"Would you break bread with me?" I asked.


"I expected to sup on you, not with you," she replied.


I revealed my secret weapon, hidden previously by the fatigues’ chameleon camouflage: a large loaf of brown peasant bread I had hydrated a few minutes earlier. I broke it in half, the moist smell of seemingly freshly baked bread drifted up. I offered her half the loaf.


She took it easily between her thumb and forefinger. She finished it in two bites, a unexpected sign of respect since she could have popped it into her mouth like candy.


We munched in silence awhile until she said, "I’ve tracked you these past four days. That retro-techno camouflage suit never fooled me once. You knew, didn’t you?"


I nodded, chewing and swallowing.


"I had enough of the game the second day," she continued, "I desired the taste of man-flesh. I closed on your camp, ready to take you. But you knew, again, when I would come, and you were long gone. I was furious."


"I heard," I said around a mouthful of bread, "even though I was on the other side of the valley."


"You eluded me for two more days. Two whole days. It was," she paused, eyes distant, "enraging. Humiliating. Delicious."


"I don’t Cat-and-Mouse," I said again. A white lie. I did play, but I had learned to reverse the rolls. It kept me alive.


"Well," she murmured, closing her legs further, pulling me closer to her until the bearskin tickled my lap. "What do we do now?"


"We bargain," I suggested, craning my neck just to see above her breasts.


"What for?"


"I need a lift to reach the next waterhole," I said.


"A lift, huh?"


"My GPS links to the old worldweb," I explained. "I know the waterhole’s precise location. You could claim it—under your own name, not your sorority’s."


She slowly flipped my hair over with her pinky finger. She could have snapped my neck as easily, I knew.


"Not much of a bargain," she said, "You need me to take you there anyway."


"I’d offer my GPS," I lied, "but the interface is sized for a gulliver."


She smiled wryly. "Boys and toys," she teased in a singsong, "not interested."


Her wicked grin glowed in the green light.


"What are you thinking?" I asked. I tried to sound unsure, but my anticipation probably betrayed me.


"Are you one of those gullivers?" she asked, cocking her head to one side.


"Which kind?"


"I’ve Cat-and-Moused gullivers since girlhood." She sounded embarrassed now. "But I’ve heard that some…I mean, the elders talk about…Look, I came to womanhood 6 Flares ago, and I’ve bedded many sisters, thrice by right." She’s young, I realized, boasting of her conquests and lying about her age."I’ve taken gullivers as sorority status demands, but that’s always just a grunt-and-squish. But I’ve been told…"


"I see," I said, snuggling back into the crook of her left knee. I ran my hand over her inner thigh. I pressed down hard, or she would have barely noticed. "Then yes, I am one of ‘those’ gullivers."


She ran her hand up and down the entire length of my body, gently exploring, like a curator examining a fine piece of china for faults. "What do we do?" she breathed, eyes shining with curiosity.


"Anything you want," I gushed, then gulped, trying to remain on top of things. "But I have a few suggestions."


"Go ahead."


"Lean back," I said, and she did.


I moved my hands over her firm abdomen, found a knot of tension by a rib, and kneaded it out with circling thumbs.


"Your hands are so tiny," she giggled, twisting to present more of her back to me, "but strong. Well, strong enough." She yelped. "Right there. Damn, that’s been bothering me for weeks."


I stood to reach the vast expanse of her back. I learned the massage technique years ago, a method to get a giantess used to being touched by a gulliver, voluntarily.


Tension flowed from her as she rumbled, "Wow, how do you do that?"


"It helps to have teeny fingers, although I had to practice by squeezing rocks for years before I could even dimple a woman’s muscle. What, you think I’m kidding?" I worked my slow way around to the front of her ribcage, heading stealthily downward.


Her purr dropped subsonic by the time I reached the curve of her hips. The curve from a woman’s waist to hip always excited me, during my pre-Morbius teenage days, when I learned to treat a woman’s body like a violin, and today, even though women had become double basses.


She closed her eyes, smiling dreamily, and unhooked the bearskin wraparound. She lay down on the tall wild grass (grinding it into juice) and stretched her arms out luxuriously, wriggling her fingers. "God is this nice," she mumbled.


I sat between spread legs like fallen logs, sandwiched in her inner thighs, the curve of her rump and the tableau of her cleft presented as a table before me. Her musk stank. So must I, I realized, since we had both spent the last several days crawling, sweating, and running through the wild wood. I slowly ran my hands through the wide expanse of her dark pubic hair. The green light reflected its sweat and slick.


"You’ve got quite a rash down here," I commented clinically.


She propped her head up, glaring at me for spoiling the mood. "What?"


For centuries, modern man has turned modern woman off by opening his stupid mouth. You could count on it. I was. "The bear hide is not tanned. It must be driving you crazy."


She stared down at me like I was crazy.


"Later, I’ll show you how to tan a hide, like the elders do," I said, sounding shy, not looking up from my ministrations.


I risked a peek and saw understanding dawning on her face. She looked down at me in pride—in herself, of course, not in me.


She sat up quickly, wrapped both hands around me, and plucked me up high above her head. "You’re no gulliver, tricky devil!" she cried happily. "You’re a gnome! No wonder you were so hard to catch. A gnome! And I caught you!" She hugged me to her elegant neck. "Not Lyla, Roe, or even Tyle, but me! Kale the sprat caught a gnome!" She raised me to the stars again. "Do you have a name, my little gnome?"


I do play Cat-and-Mouse, you see, but on my own terms. "I do. Bosch is my name," I lied. The game would end in an instant if she learned the truth.


She stood and twirled me about. "Bosch!" her triumphant voice echoed across the field, and probably rolled over the hills beyond. "I claim you, not for Sigma Theta, but under my own name! I am Kale, who hunted you alone, and took you alone! And now I claim you alone!"


She brought me down, pressing me firmly against her lips. My face drenched in her furnace-hot kiss. She lowered me down to the ground, eyes aflame. I trembled, intoxicated by her exuberance and youth. I stood there, blushing like an idiot.


"Shall I," I quavered. I paused a moment until my heart stopped pounding. "Shall I salve your rash?"


She plopped back down onto the grass so suddenly the ground lurched. "By all means," she giggled.


I snuggled into her steamy crotch again and produced my second secret weapon, a ceramic salve jar. With two fingers, I scooped out a healthy dollop of the pearly cream, watching it catch the eerie camp-globe light. I felt the cream’s chemical heat work into my fingers, smelled its subtle fragrance.


"The stories say when you catch a gnome," came Kale’s voice, "he gives you three wishes. Is that true?"


"True for leprechauns," I chuckled, "but for gnomes, it depends on what you wish for."


Stretching, I massaged the cream into the thick patch of hair above her cleft, slowly curling my hands into fists, the releasing, relishing the feel of her flesh roll underneath my touch.


"Oh! It so warm!" she said. As I worked the lather into the creases of her inner thighs, she giggled and squirmed, bucking me about.


She hummed contently. "Hm. First, I wish Tyle gets banished!"


Once I was sure she felt comfortable with the sensation, I scooped a little more into my palm, and pressed it slowly and gently into the left rise of her mound. I heard a little gasp as she tensed, ever so slightly, as if frightened to move.


I spread the cream up and down, as steady and slow as I could, teasing the outer edges of her tender lips. The soft arc of her mound, almost three feet of womanhood, contrasted with the toned firmness of her thighs and abdomen. Another scoop, and I massaged the other side.


"Second," she said, soft and stammering, "I—I wish to be chieftess of the sorority."


I took out my third and final secret weapon, a thin wedge of green cataplastic, like a comb with its teeth fused together. I reached over. "Third," she began as I pressed down and traced an arc with the wedge across her skin. "I—what?" Her head popped up to take a look.


The cataplastic activated the cream’s gentle solvent on contact.


"What? I. What?" was all she could say as I sloughed off the foaming curls of her pubic hair with the green wedge.


She lay back down in several jerky movements. It took a few more minutes to finish.


I ran my hands over her silky-smooth cleft. "All done," I said, "how does it feel?"


After a long silence, she said, "Wow."


I stood, leaned forward, and rested my arms by her belly-button, chin in palm, smiling. We stared at each other until she broke into a fit of giggles, bouncing me about. I lost balance and fell back down to the grass, laughing.


Her giggling cascaded to bright, sparkling laughter. She raised her huge fists high into the sky. "Yes! Kale the sprat!" she spat out between barks of chuckling.


She swallowed her subsiding giggles, sat up and leaned out over my tiny prone form, slowly blotting out the stars like an encroaching spacecraft, until we were nose to nose. I could see happy tears beading in her long lashes. "And you, Bosch," she said quietly, "are all mine."


I stroked one of her braids, a silken steel cable. "What about your third wish?"


"We’ll discuss that later," she said huskily, and engulfed me in delirious shower of kisses.


When she came up for air, my hair stuck straight up and sticky.


"You know," she said, sitting back, caressing the new smoothness between her legs, "it’s still pretty warm down here."


I knelt down at her cleft, parted the heavy hood of her lips, and cupped a clitoris the size of a small doorknob, slick with her own cream. "I see," I replied, hearing her moaning sigh. As I massaged her, she ripped up huge clumps of earth and sward, gouging out great troughs on either side of us.


Still manipulating her gently, I stood and clicked open the collar of my fatigues. The poly-alloy slipped about like water, and condensed into two thick wristbands. Cool air caressed my nude back, but the rest of me baked in her sultry desire.


My next device was neither secret, nor a weapon.


Still gasping, perspiration filming her lips, she pointed to my satyr implant and asked, "What the heck is that?"


"A long story," I answered truthfully.


"Boy," she scolded, shaking her head, "that is some toy. How do you keep your balance?"


I leaned on her leg, lifting my enhanced member so the wild grass could not tickle me crazy. "I can’t, not without your help."


I could see another clever remark in her eyes, but a stronger impulse took her over. "Come here," she breathed.


Using both hands to guide it, I pressed the head of my penis into her vagina.


"Oh, God, come on," she urged.


My satyr implant reported through my subdermal nerveweb that she had no hymen. I stepped forward, feeling the heavy heat wash over me, my entire abdomen pressed against her lips.


"Come on," she growled again.


I took a step back, my implant reported it located her g-spot, and I thrust back.


"God! Bosch!"


"Use your hands," I gasped, "don’t worry; you won’t hurt me."


She wrapped a trembling hand behind my back, rubbing me back and forth, in and out. The satyr implant started relaying lists of data and recommendations for best orgasm delivery, but I shut the damn thing off and revelled in the heat and slippery pressure as she smeared me about.


Soon her stomach began to tremble, and her hand just pushed me in little, jerking circles. I sucked the knob of her clitoris into my mouth, massaging its base. Suddenly, she pushed painfully down on me, hard and incessant. Three tiny gasps, then her whole body relaxed, and I slipped out, stumbling a bit.


Resting against her thigh, I shut down the satyr implant completely. I lurched, incapacitated by orgasm, as it shrank, gushing semen out onto the grass. Sex usually energizes me, wakes me up, but as I listened to Kale gulp and giggle her pleasure, I felt incredibly warm and content. I must have dozed off, because the next I knew, Kale was sitting up and saying, "Not there, tricky devil. I could roll over and break one of your ribs."


She stood, yawning, and hoisted me up, straddling me on a hip like a toddler. She brought me over to my camping equipment. "You have some retro-techno to sleep in, I imagine?"


I hopped off her hip, and gave the tent-bubble a kick. It popped up comically.


"No room for me in there," she sighed.


I pushed my way through the tent-bubble's osmotic flap. "Maybe there’ll be some salvage at the waterhole."


"I’m used to bedding down on the ground anyway," she said, walking back into the field. It looked like a war zone.


She ran her hand over one of the craters she had torn up. "Tricky, tricky devil," she sighed again, folding up her bearskin for a pillow. "Good night."


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