Gilded Cage

Once upon a time, I wrote a M/f story for a prior incarnation of the Violent Shrinking Woman forum.  Heads up if being involuntarily shrunk, kidnapped, and molested by a Giant are not your cuppa tea…

Gilded Cage
Act 1

Richard was a recruiter. His “prospects” rarely knew they were on his list until it was too late, nevertheless, his record was nearly flawless.

He had faithfully served the Organisation for years, targeting scientists and other “assets” for recruitment. Most of the “recruited” were so suitably impressed with the act of recruitment that they cooperated willingly, but there were a few notable exceptions.

In one case, a particularly stubborn computer scientist had protested quite vehemently… refusing to do the software development that the Organisation had mandated. His resistance had quickly melted when he was shown his wife, collared and reduced, trapped under a glass cake cover in a terrarium filled with vicious Australian funnel web spiders, their fangs clicking greedily against the glass as they strained to get at the juicy and appropriately terrorized morsel inside. The scientist had immediately agreed to do the work– a new software algorithm for sequencing genetic code, and had wound up doing quite a good job of it. The results were “leaked” to the Human Genome Project, allowing it to be completed well ahead of schedule, thereby furthering the Organisations efforts in the field of Eugenics. Rumor had it that the scientist had actually become a willing participant from that point forward, and that he had acquired a taste for keeping his wife reduced and at his disposal.

But all good things must come to an end. Richard knew and accepted this. At the ripe old age of thirty five, he was feeling the heat of the younger Members nipping at his heels. He was losing his edge. He was taking less chances. But his career with the Organisation had been the stuff of legends. Daring abductions under the tightest of security. It didn’t matter if the targets were corporate, university or government assets. Richard had been the “go to” guy. Richard was the recruiter that delivered.

Sitting in the Director’s reception area, he thought about his impending retirement. He knew the Organisation would find use for him as a trainer and consultant– that much was assured. No… his concerns were much more self serving. He was wondering if his “gold watch” request would be granted.

The receptionist rises from her desk and smiles cheerfully, her hybrid collar just barely visible under the open top of the crisp business blouse she wore.

“Sir, the Director will see you now” she says, leading him to the dark mahogany doors that opened into the Directors office.

He smiles politely and takes a deep breath, rising and following the girl. He doubted that the Organisation had ever been presented with a gold watch request quite like his!

The Director rises to meet him, greeting him warmly with a firm handshake and offering him a seat in the nearby conversation area.  Richard takes this as a good sign… they would be speaking frankly and as near equals. Had he been directed to sit before the huge desk, he would have known that his request had been denied. There was still a chance.

Over steaming mugs of coffee, they talk about the Organisation and Richard’s career. Laughing… swapping war stories… musing on the shortcomings of the latest crop of young new Members, as well as the declining quality of their adversaries. While they chat, CNN hums on a television monitor mounted in a nearby wall bookshelf– audio/visual wallpaper at the moment… things had been relatively quiet as of late. The Organisation was currently in “heads down” mode… trying to integrate the latest genetic findings with their admittedly old fashioned human breeding programmes. Eventually, the discussion wanes. The Director takes a sip of coffee and sets his mug down, leaning forward with a questioning look on his weathered and hawk-like face.

“Now Richard, about this gold watch request…”

Richard nods slightly, his eyes searching the Director’s face for some clue…

“…are you sure this is what you want?”, the older man continues… “You know that we appreciate the contributions you’ve made to the Organisation. Your work has been invaluable. Nor do I question that your request would expose us to any unnecessary risks….”, at this the Director chuckles… “compared with your other accomplishments, this strikes me as taking candy from a baby. But thats my point exactly… is this all that you want?”

Richard smiles, nodding confidently as his eyes track to the nearby television screen and the soft drink commercial that blares loudly… selling soda and sex… the dancing pitchgirl gyrating and singing with a thousand watt smile, her enthusiasm and youthful beauty enough to get a rise out of even the most jaded male.

“Yes Sir… I want her”, Richard replies simply.

The words “Bethany and PopCola!” blaze across the screen as the girl finishes her dance with a flourish.

Act 2

(Opens to the tune of David Bowie’s “Young Americans”….)

Bethany Jane Collins (simply ‘Bethany’ to her countless legions of fans) was feeling pretty smug. She was the “it” girl of the moment. Her latest song was another smash hit… the tour was selling out in all venues… and things were going so well on the road that her handlers had agreed to let her play hooky for the night.

Jetting from New Orleans to her exclusive hideout on Sannibel Island before the next show in Dallas, she mused on how well she had managed to kill two birds with one stone– getting some private playtime with her latest conquest (a relatively unknown young male model who had the most incredibly talented tongue!), and dumping her previous studboy– an up and coming young actor who was trying to break out of his television career and into film. Much like the string of golden boys that preceded him, Eric had turned out to be lame-lame-lame. Sure, he was good in bed… but he lacked imagination. Bethany craved new experiences… and her new toy, Sean, was both attentive and properly awed by her celebrity status.

Bethany was a product of the O-town pop factory… the latest in a string of manufactured bubblegum stars that seemed to spring from obscurity to overexposure in the blink of an eye. She had been born to an upper middle class family with society ties… new money, but money nonetheless. Raised in relative obscurity, her mother had started her on the kiddie pageant circuit at a very young age… her childhood had been filled with dance lessons, singing instruction… then finally television commercials and a kiddie cable show. Mom was ecstatic. It was no big secret that the Mother was living vicariously through her daughter’s success. Bethany didn’t fault her in the least. “Let Mom have her little thrills”, she thought, “…while I sample the platter that life has to offer!”

Bethany’s youthful appearance belied her 22 years of privileged life. This was no mere accident… rather a shrewd and calculated marketing ploy on the part of the producers who had recruited and groomed her for bubblegum stardom. Market studies had shown that the previous female bubblegum stars, all pretty much in their ‘jailbait’ years, had amassed a pretty respectable “closet” fan base– young adult to middle aged males who couldn’t help but drool over the fresh and bouncy images they were bombarded with on a daily basis. But Bethany was different… the unspoken message seemed to be: “Go ahead and drool openly boys… this one is legal”.

Settling back in the plush first class seating of the private jet they had rented for the jaunt, Bethany stretches like a satisfied kitten and gives her bodyguard Vic a smile across the aisle. Vic returns the smile and goes back to his sports magazine, secretly relieved that “the princess” (as she was not-so-affectionately referred to by most of her support staff) seemed to be satisfied and content for a change. Out of the corner of his eye, Vic notes that his “assistant”, a burly muscleboy by the name of Deke (who had blown his shot at an NFL career by way of a drunken college brawl that had landed him a nice little manslaughter charge), was once again picking his teeth and examining the ‘findings’. “Christ…” Vic thinks… “I told him… she catches him doing that and he’ll be ‘gross’…”, which was pretty much synonymous with ‘dismissed’ in the princesses entourage. Vic just rolls his eyes and gets back to the latest rundown of draft picks, surrounded by the comforting white noise hum of the learjet’s engines as it streaks through the cloudy night sky, crossing the Gulf of Mexico for it’s rendezvous with ‘princesses playpen’.

After a while, the flight attendant starts making his rounds… starting with Bethany of course… who orders her usual double Pina Colada. As she takes her drink from the vaguely attractive but sorta old guy, Bethany can’t help but feel that his eyes are lingering a bit more than they should, and she makes a mental note to complain to the charter service. “After all..”, she thinks, “a firm that specializes in catering to celebrities like herself should damn well be briefing their people on maintaining a proper distance when serving the clientele!”

Vic simply grunts that a “mineral water will be fine”… and a hard stare back at Deke pretty much tells him to follow suit, instead of his usual “Budwahser”. Vic had been having a devil of a time keeping Deke off the suds during on-duty time, and he’d be damned if he was going to catch any flak for Deke’s seemingly endless thirst for “Budwahser”…

Surprisingly, none of this is lost on Bethany, who took a secret delight in Vic’s eternal struggle to keep Deke from being a total fuckup… so when the barely audible “fwup fwup” sounds register from behind her… and Vic starts clawing at the back of his neck in some sort of drunken pantomime, she starts giggling, thinking that Deke has shot a spitball or something at Vic in retaliation for the mineral water eyeballs… but then she sees the small matte black wasp… (no… a dart?!?) sticking out of the back of Vics neck.  Then Deke pitches over the seatback next to her.

Bethany’s short hairs stand up on the back of her neck.

For a heartbeat she sits frozen…

…and is rewarded by a sharp sting slamming into the fleshy side of her neck… and a wave of soft fire that radiates from the impact point as the tranq drug quickly takes effect… blunting her belated attempt to leap from the seat– instead she makes a spastic half-turning fall that wedges her against the seatback in front of her… looking back at her attacker…

The flight attendant just smiles…wisps of Co2 vapor still rising from the open end of a disposable pen that he holds pointed at her… and he nods in response to the barely audible question that she struggles to form as she quickly sinks into the fog of the tranq drug– “wh.. who..”

The guy’s grin gets wider… an obscene parody of the grin-lock she had seen on the faces of her teenybopper fans during autograph signings…

“Bethany… I am your biggest fan”, he says simply.

It’s the last thing Bethany hears before the fog turns ominously black and she goes under.

Richard quickly retrieves his darts and props his impromptu party of three back into a rough semblance of sleep-seating, then reloads the dart-pen and trundles the drink cart up to the cockpit.

Two more “fwups” later and a quick check of the autopilot, and Richard returns, whistling as he leaves the cockpit. He kicks the drink cart into the front side-galley and grabs a heavy jacket and backpack from the overhead cabinets, then trots quickly over to Bethany’s row. He puts on the gear and plucks a small plastic packet from one of the jacket’s many pockets, then kneels down next to the slumbering pop-singer…

His gaze lingers for a moment… “Like an Angel” he muses… and he hums a few bars of Bethany’s latest hit, chuckling to himself and brushing a stray lock of blonde hair back from her eyes, then pulling the fresh hybrid collar from its packet and curling it around her all-american cheerleaders neck.

Richard flicks the end caps off the new collar with his thumbs and holds the bare ends together, watching the almost imperceptible blur as nanotech devices knit the material together at the molecular level, joining circuitry and leather, and cinching the collar to a predetermined snugness, the extra material bled off in a cool wispy smoke of discarded metal and organic particles.

Satisfied that it was primed, he lets go of the collar and grabs the discarded caps, shoving them into his pocket and waiting for the joining process to complete…

When the surface of the collar joint shines with the same consistency as the rest of the material, Richard pulls the Fob from his pocket and quickly punches in the sequence for the calibration routine… and the Collar glows faintly red… Bethany moaning and stiffening as the dull ache of calibration manages to cause uneasy dreams in her tranq’ed down haze…

Richard clicks his teeth impatiently… and is finally rewarded by a tiny chime from the Fob… calibration complete!  His grin couldn’t be any wider as he switches modes and points the Fob at the elegant Collar, wrapped snug around the pop singer’s long and lovely neck…

“It’s showtime Beths”, Richard murmurs as his thumb mashes down on the oval button…

The collar glows a faint hazy Cherenkov blue… then in an eyeblink, Bethany’s travel clothes– wide bell bottomed hip hugger jeans and an untied midriff shirt.. lay empty across the seating… almost like a tube of clothing. Her heavy cloggy shoes fall to the aisle with twin thumps as the “clothes tube” settles flat… except… for a small outline bulging about where the shirt and pants hems meet.

Richard gingerly spreads the shirt and pants fabric apart… and inhales sharply when he reveals Bethany Collins, naked and perfectly formed… no larger than a Barbie Doll. He unzips an inside jacket pocket and takes out a foot tall rectangular box… padded inside with a porous foam material, the rigid outside of the box criss-crossed with rows of tiny airholes.

Richard carefully scoops up the nude miniaturized pop star with both hands, laying her on the padding and closing the lid… then snapping shut the six travel interlocks around the sides and tucking the box back into the pocket, zipping it shut, tight and snug.

He stands and trots back up to the cockpit… unclips a small black box from his backpack and sets it against the autopilot CPU… and a software virus is transmitted into the memory of the machine… in one minute the autopilot will have been “incorrectly calibrated”… and all traces of the virus deleted… sending the plane into a lazy one gee rolling turn… banking it over enough for Richard to bail out… and also to convince the crash investigators that the pilot had transposed an entry code in such a way as to mask the course change from them at night… if they were distracted… say… having a drink or chatting with the flight attendant… a freak one-in-a-million thing really…

Richard retrieves his virus box and returns to the cabin, waiting by the pressure door and looking disdainfully at the still drooling bodyguards. When the time is right, he grins, waves, and says “buh-bye”, then he pops the hatch open and leaps into the bracingly cold night air.

After an exhilarating free-fall, Richard’s airfoil canopy pops open and he starts guiding it towards the “Shrimper” that waits at the pre-determined spot. His wrist GPS ticks out the bearing and range as he struggles to ace a dry landing on the seemingly ramshackle boat. The orange glow of a distant fireball plays along his face as the doomed jet slams nose first into the dark waters of the Gulf… the dull roar of the explosion coming moments later.

As befitting his final recruitment… Richard’s feet slap the hard deck of the shrimp boat precisely where he needed to, and he easily absorbs the shock of landing. While the attendants help him shed the parafoil rigging, he thinks that this was going to be a very long ride back to his place in San Fran… a long ride for him anyway.

Bethany, on the other hand, would be spared the trip. Her awakening had been timed very carefully.

News sources across the country are synced together in one of those mass media moments: “Special Report”… the sinking feeling in the gut of the older people, wondering what was to follow… the relief when the announcement was made, and the contrast of that relief with the delicious angst of the younger set.

“A charter flight carrying pop singer Bethany Collins has disappeared from air traffic control radar and is assumed down over the Gulf of Mexico… Coast Guard search and rescue craft are currently racing to the last reported position…”

Act 3

Bethany’s first sensation was cold… cold around her ankles, her waist and her wrists. As she slowly surfed back to a conscious state, something was nagging at the barely coherent corner of her mind… something about black wasps… and…

“Vic!!!” Bethany shouted… her eyes flying wide open.

She was immediately disoriented.

Looking ahead, she had a hard time seeing clearly at first… she thought it was her eyes, but like a shifting optical illusion, the sheet of clear but not perfectly smooth plastic resolves about a foot away from her face.

She was pinned with her back against some hard but brightly colored surface… like a wall…her arms and legs were spread slightly out– wrists, ankles and waist each circled snugly by a single loop of stiff cable that came out of a hole in the surface on one side, over her, then back into another hole in the wall on her other side.

And the clothes she was wearing… “what the fuck is this” she wonders.

Around her neck she could feel a snug choker necklace of some sort. Then a white midi-tee-shirt, so short it barely drapes over her boobs, the hem dangling well away from her upper belly… but the fabric weave is so coarse! It reminds her of a knitted afghan or something. Moving down, a godawful see-thru micro mini-skirt made of dark pink plastic is wrapped around her waist…and what the fuck, no underwear!!? When she flexes against the cables, the heavy plastic of the skirt makes a loud crinkling noise. Her feet were encased in some kind of goofy plastic replicas of high heeled ankle boots. They felt more like shoe shaped vases on her feet instead of real footwear as she wiggled her toes inside the smooth white plastic and flexed her ankles, trying to squeeze her feet out of the fake boots and through wire cables… but no such luck.

The room beyond is distorted and huge. An enormous Deskphone sits about 20 feet away from her. Suddenly she understands…

“Morty!!! You son of a bitch! The joke is over!” Bethany shouts, her voice sounding a little muffled by “this crappy plexiglas” as she grunts, straining against the cables. “Mortyyyyyy!!!!”

That fat bastard had gone too far this time! His ass was grass. Bethany had been looking for an excuse to dump her producer– a gross, blunt, cigar chain-smoking dinosaur who looked like he had stepped out of some cliche 1940’s Hollywood. This was his handiwork. That dickhead had pulled his Orlando strings and had set her up in one of those OmniStudio simulation rides… probably that ‘Fly to the Future’ thing… and they had popped a different movie in to freak her out. Well… nice try Morty, but you stepped in a big pile of shit this time.

“Mortyyyyyyy! Every second I’m stuck here is a percentage point off your cut!!!

Some movement catches her eye… a huge door opening on the other side of the airplane hanger sized “room” on the screen in front of her. A Man steps into the the room and quickly crosses over to the foreground, almost filling her field of vision as he sits down at the desk and stares at her, his chin resting on folded hands. It’s that goddamn flight attendent!

“Mortyyyyyy! You asshole!!! If this is some kind of music video idea… you can stop the pitch get me the fuck off!”

The image of the Man before her tilts his head quizzically, then chuckles, the loud echo of his low laughter sounding like one of her concert hall sound systems. He stops chuckling and looks her in the eye (creepy realism! she thinks), then his low amplified Voice rumbles–

“Ahhhh! You think this is some kind of prank”, the Man’s Voice booms.

‘Oh great… it’s interactive’ Bethany thinks, ‘and this guy is getting a free beaver shot along with his actors scale’

“you just tell morty his little joke is beyond lame now, and get me the fuck out of here!”, the pop star shouts at the giant Man, looking defiantly back into his huge eyes… thinking that the pickup cameras must be embedded somewhere near there on the ‘screen’.

In spite of herself, she flinches when the Giant’s cupped Hand looms close to the plastic rectangle that covers her… and she starts to say, “oh come on now… really! stop with this funhouse crap and”

But she stops in mid-sentence… her mouth still open.

The Giant’s huge ‘virtual’ Fingers and Thumb had gripped the plastic on either side of her!

They were pressed flat against it.

They were squeezing it!

Bethany’s ears popped and she started screaming as The Hand pulled the plastic rectangle away, exposing her to a cool wash of fresh air.

Straining frantically, Bethany screams and screams… and her cries go up an octave when the Giant Man slides a huge lighted makeup Mirror in front of her… showing her the “wall” she was attached to for what it really was– a brightly colored “blister card”… the type that hangs on a toy store pegboard… specifically… it was packaging for a “Bethany” doll, leaning against a huge desktop Vase.

Except now, the real Bethany Collins was mounted on it.

The realization comes crashing down on her… and looking at the image of herself, transfixed on the colorful cardboard square, she stops screaming and starts shaking her head… trying to deny her senses… babbling in a tiny panicky voice– “oh fuck no… please no please oh fuck this is insane.. oh no no… people can’t be made into dolls… no this is a dream… just a dream… ohgodplease… wake up… wake up… somebody please wake me up…

The Giant Man watches the shrunken pop star in the throes of her desperate denial, an amused smile on his face.

“Poor little thing…” He Chuckles, “I assure you this is not a dream!”

Bethany cranes her neck to look up at the Giant’s Face, her little blue eyes looking pitiful and scared, her bound doll-sized body shaking with fear and shock in the loops of wire that pin her against the cardboard.

“please mister… i’ll pay you… i’ll get you whatever you want… just put me back… i promise… nobody needs to know… i’ll do anything…”

And the Giant Laughs, cutting her pleading short…

“Oh I have everything I could ever want now!” His Voice echoes, his huge brown Eyes narrowing as they stare at her sleek but tiny body, his Smile wide and predatory.

“But you’re right about one thing my little songbird…” He chuckles, “you will do anything…”

His Hand rises from the Desk, the loglike Index Finger extended as it homes in on her miniature boobs.

Bethany starts protesting… squeaking “no!! please no!!” over and over again as she desperately tries to avoid that Fingertip… the skin at her wrists and ankles starting to chafe from her efforts…

The Giant makes a loud “Mmmmmmmmm” sound as his insistent Finger twiddles each of her jiggly little tits for a bit… then it pinches the tee shirt and rips it off like so much tissue paper, dropping it on the Desktop.

Bethany stops struggling and looks up at Him, her tiny tits shaking as she gasps for breath, her gaze following the Finger as the Giant puts it to his Lips and licks the Fingertip with His terribly large and glistening Tongue.

“Tell me Bethany… does the term ‘anatomically correct’ mean anything to you?” the Giant rumbles with a smirk as His wet Fingertip slides under her trashy plastic doll miniskirt.

Bethany throws her head back and screams as the huge slippery Fingertip finds her tiny sex, gently pushing against her labia and wiggling in a little tickling motion, the slickness and gentle pressure spreading her pussy lips apart.

A feeling of mortified horror washes over her as her sex lubricates in response to the steady and relentless rubbing, her tiny clitoris stimulated by the slippery ridges of the Giant’s Fingerprints.

Soon the doll sized girl is grunting and wriggling in the twisty-wire bindings… feeling her sex slowly building to an orgasm. As much as she tries to resist, the steady back and forth motion of His Fingerprint ridges bumping against her tiny clit is too much… and soon she lets out a frustrated cry of defeat mixed with pleasure as the orgasm blooms, her little body stiffening on the cardboard mount as the climax explodes, shooting out from her sex along all her nerve pathways and filling her tiny world with sweet electricity for a brief moment.

When the wave of pleasure subsides, the tiny girl unstiffens and hangs her head in shame, her long blonde hair covering half of her face as she struggles to catch her breath, and the Giant’s Finger finally relents and withdraws. He Chuckles in amusement, loud and rumbling, and a miniscule teardrop falls to the desktop, unnoticed by her Giant captor.

the tiny living bethany-doll finally catches her breath and sniffles a few times, then raises her head when a breeze and some motion catches her eye…

her scream is hoarse and tinged with madness as she gazes wide-eyed at the enormous Cock Head that bobs obscenely, mere inches from her chest. she starts shaking her head violently from side to side and the Giant just smiles and nods…

“Oh yes… it’s My turn now little one”, He says, somehow quietly in spite of his echoing, amplified Voice.

His huge Cockhead slides between her miniature breasts, pushing them painfully apart and sliding up and down between them… the Cocktip poking her in the chin every stroke or two… and a glistening globe of pre-cum eventually forms on the Tip and drips down to lubricate her tiny cleavage.

As the Giant takes his pleasure against her, bethany can feel the heat building in the monster Penis as it rubs and rubs against her tiny body like some kind of sensuous dancer nearly as tall as her, the tip-hole occasionally kissing her chin and neck… leaving dabs of the sticky, clear pre-cum on her. After a while, the Cock-skin grows tight and shiny, and she feels bumps rising under the taut skin…

bethany moans and tries to turn her face away, anticipating the inevitable eruption, but it doesn’t help much… the Cock starts pulsing, and gobs of hot semen spurt from the Tip, sticking jelly-like to the side of her doll-face and neck… coating her chest and dripping down her flat tummy to the hem of the trashy plastic miniskirt.

bethany squeaks in disgust as the shooting strings of cum gradually subside, then the Cock withdraws and she looks up, her eyes narrow with anger as she stares defiantly up at the smiling Giant. He responds by wiping the tip his cock against her face, smearing the cum on her cheek all over her mouth and nose, and the tiny girl sputters and nearly chokes as she struggles to breath through the thick white jelly, coughing and spitting, her eyes filled with tears…

“What’s the matter little one?” the Giant taunts, “you think you’re too good to swallow?”

He tucks his Cock back into his Pants and zips up, then throws his head back, laughing at the tiny dollgirl with his hands on his hips.

“Well then… I suppose I should clean you up before I put you in your new home”, the Giant says, casually grabbing the cardboard and lifting her off of the Desktop with breathtaking speed.

Hyperventilating… the miniaturized girl struggles to control her breathing as she soars upward, but it’s no use… her tiny eyes roll back in their sockets, and the world goes mercifully dark… for now.

Act 4

bethany’s first dimly felt sensation is a gentle rocking motion and a liquid warmth.  For a moment she’s disoriented, and thinks she’s at her spa.  she can even feel her favorite masseur working on her bod… except… Lars hands feel strangely blunt today… and they have a peculiar ridged feeling to th…

bethany snaps fully awake in an instant, her tiny heart nearly leaping out of her doll sized chest…  she is cupped in the Giant’s Hand over a huge white washbasin, naked and lathered with a fragrant liquid soap.  The Giant’s Fingers are slipping all over her body, working the soap suds, and lingering possessively on her little doll tits, belly and thighs.   the miniaturized girl starts screaming and struggling, trying to avoid the Giant’s huge fleshy digits as they play relentlessly with her.  she feels her tiny ass starting to slide out of his Hand and she rolls with it…

When Richard feels the reduced girl starting to slip from his grasp, he cups her firmly with both hands, pinning her arms to her sides and marveling at the feel of her tiny lean body– slippery, and squirming with *surprising* power in his hands.  Tiny shapely legs stick out one side of his two handed grasp and kick furiously.   The little doll’s face sticks out the other side, grimacing as the cords on her delicate little neck strain with her effort.

Eventually tiny bethany’s struggles weaken, and she lets out a frustrated scream and stiffens one last time, then sags limply in the Giants firm grip, winded from her futile efforts to break away from Him.

“Awwwww… whats the matter, has my little songbird come down with a bad case of modesty??” the Giant mocks as he curls one set of Fingers tightly around her arms and waist, then turns her on her back and starts squeezing a beach towel sized washrag over her with his free hand.  The warm water sluices over her curves, rinsing off the thin sheen of soap and sweat that’s left on her skin from wriggling in his fist

“go fuck yourself” the little pop star gasps… stiffening weakly again and groaning, her legs dangling off one side of the palm of the Giant’s Hand.

“tsk tsk… such nasty language from such a tiny thing” the Giant scolds as he pats her doll body dry with another washcloth, “you really need to control your temper little one” he remarks casually as he pinches one of her cherry sized titties for emphasis.

bethany yelps from the firm tweak and almost starts whimpering, but she bites her lower lip and resolves not to give this asshole the satisfaction

After she’s thoroughly dried and powdered, the Giant proceeds to dress little bethany in a schoolgirl doll outfit– a plaid skirt, a crisp white midriff blouse, knee high stockings, and black shiny plastic shoes. She tries to resist but she’s no match for his powerful Hands as they force her arms and legs into the right positions to slide the ridiculous outfit onto her lean little body.

When he’s finished, the Giant holds her out and looks her over with a hungry gleam in his eye.  “You like to tease don’t you?  The Giant chuckles, “Well, we might as well dress you for the part!”

Then he introduces her to her new home- on a green felt covered table in his well furnished Den sits a large dome topped cage made of glittering brass.  Along one side is a small round bed with silken sheets. On the other side, behind a very short modesty panel is a little china demi-cup, presumably her commode.  In the center is a swing that hangs from the top.

The Giant sets bethany on the swing and locks the Cage.

He sits down next to the table. “Now little one” He rumbles. “Sing for me”

Hopeless and terrified, little bethany  does just that.


short story


It was Elizabeth’s third tour of duty in the sandbox… and she’d volunteered for it. Her friends and family thought she was crazy, and she agreed, maybe she was. Fuck if she was some kind of super patriot– she came to do what she could for the scratch poor tribals she saw caught between the giant gears of bullshit geopolitics. Not that she would admit that to anyone… fuck’em… let’em think what they want.

So another Saturday night ride out to the latest line in the dirt, one of those badass local sandstorms cranking up, and wouldn’t you know the convoy comes under fire just as the wind and blinding dust are howling and screaming around the whole mess.

Liz feels her ride take a hit and she’s tossed like a rag doll into the wind and fire and static discharge.

And that’s pretty much where *that* story ends.

She wakes up sore and groggy, half covered in dirt. She hears a plane screaming overhead and cracks open one eye, expecting to see one of “ours” given the current state of air superiority, but the fighter streaking by is like nothing she’s ever seen before and her training kicks in– hold still ’till it passes and then find cover.

So she does, but nothing looks familiar. Too much green… the footpath she woke up on has a low ridgeline on one side, a valley on the other, and close to where she’d been laying there’s some wreckage on the trail.

Her first impression was some kind of small remote controlled ground drone, armored and tracked, nothing she’d ever heard of before but who the fuck knows what gear the feds were screwing with these days.

Then she spotted the bodies.

Four of them scattered around the shattered mini-track… which she now saw as a tanklike thing, but way smaller, smaller than a smart car, and a totally unfamiliar design.

But the bodies… what the fuck!? Midgets? They were only about a foot tall… wearing typical military uniforms, but cut and colored like no faction she was aware of. The troops are all messed up bad, torn and broken, very dead.

But her focus was rudely interrupted by a growling sound up ahead, getting quickly louder, and she instinctively crawled deeper into the bush line, went prone, and stared out through the weird little leaves at the most fucking insane thing she’d ever seen…

Another small track pulls up and out hop more small soldiers, one obviously an officer by the orders he’s barking in a language she’d never heard before.

Liz holds her breath as a recovery team lands in a birdlike hovering flyer and gathers up the dead, then they dust off and eventually the other track tears off down the path.

Elizabeth lets out a shaky breath. “Well Toto… we ain’t in fucking Kansas anymore, that’s for sure.”

The next couple of weeks puts Liz in her survival training mode. She scouts out a small sheltered hollow in the ridgeline, barely a shallow cave, and as luck would have it the nearby valley has a village on a decent sized lake where she was able to poach some food and water at night when she wasn’t able to trap one of the little rabbity local critters– luckily not poisonous after a few tentative samples, and actually kinda tasty.

Once she had all that worked out, she started trying to figure how the fuck she got here… what the fuck *was* this place, and how to get back to where she belonged! The first night was a shock– totally unfamiliar night sky. No pattern she could figure out, and then there were the moons… yep. moons.

“Elizabeth Jane Kelly… whatthehell haveya gotten yerself into this time?” She muttered in her dearly departed dad’s heavy brogue.

So she keeps exploring and picking over the spot where she “landed”, for whatever good that did. Over time Liz gains a sort of distant familiarity with the little people in the village as she spies and waits for opportunities to sneak in and poach thier ample stockpiles of cheeses and grains. It’s mostly women and children, some elderly males, presumably the rest of the able bodied men were off fighting whatever the fuck conflict was raging away at the front she’d scouted about ten klicks down the footpath road. The one exception to the village mix was a young adult male she’d taken to calling “Red” in her mind, due to his full head of curly ginger hair and the well kept beard he sported. Red was a dynamic force in the village, helping out anyone in need and pitching in whereever he could, in spite of his pronounced limp, and she assumed that’s what kept him behind when the rest were off fighting. His own family seemed limited to an oldish mother and a kid sister who adored him, even after the good natured teasing that Liz sometimes witnessed Red dishing out to her. But she gave as good as she got, and it was obvious that they loved each other dearly.

As more time went by, Liz started feeling really grungy, and she decided to risk the occasional rinse in an isolated part of the lake during the godforsaken wee hours of the eighteen hour day. On a morning she was having one of these all too infrequent cleanups, leaning back in the altogether and enjoying her soak– one of the few simple pleasures her new reality afforded her! — a sudden gravel slide deposited none other than Red himself on the shoreline. Apparently Red had not only been spying, but really *enjoying* the view for some time, as evidenced by the state of his trousers– being not quite fully on, and he himself sporting a rather gallant lower profile… as it were.

Startled, Liz sits up and lets out a short “HEY!”, water cascading off her glistening nude body and dripping from all her high points as she scoots back and then tries to cover up as best she can under the circumstances.

For his part, Red’s face nearly matches the color of his curly hair, his mouth frozen in a comically rounded O, and he tears off half running half hopping and limping as he desperately tries to pull up his pants while making a hasty retreat into the woods.

And in spite of *her* cover being pretty much blown, Liz can’t help but giggle nervously and even goes so far as to laughingly call out quietly after the receding villager…

“Hey Red c’mon back, I’ll help ya finish!” She laughs, “ya little pervert!”

But all kidding aside, She immediately climbs out of the cool water and makes a hasty retreat of her own… spending the next two weeks laying super low and going hungry, waiting and worried that a posse of little warriors were going to start beating the bushes, or worse yet, carpet bombing the hills to deal with The Giant Water Lady once and for all.

But nothing happens.

“Well Red, either you’re too embarrassed or you’re a good egg, but my vote goes for both” Liz mused one evening in her shelter as she toasted in his general direction with a fresh bowl of village water.

And so it goes… the little war rages on around her, and Liz keeps wracking her brains trying to puzzle out the conditions that dropped her Somewhere, and carefully hooking the occasional fresh supply stash from Red’s town. She was starting to suspect that Red was helping her– it was getting easier, certain supplies were being left closer to the outer edges of the town.

“Thanks Red, *mwah*” She smooched toward the village one night, a cask of their thin alcoholic brew under one arm, a decent sized cheese wheel under the other.

Then on another night, all hell broke loose.

Liz was sneaking up to the village for yet another supply hook when she heard the sound of a disturbance. She recognized Red’s distinctive (albeit small, ha) tenor, and also his kid sister crying, and some other voices that she didn’t know– harsher and commanding. She picked up her pace and cautiously crawled to one of her vantage points, and came upon a scene that made her blood boil.

It was an APC patrol from the faction Liz had taken to calling the Occupiers– one of the troops had Red pinned against a tree near the lakefront, the soldier’s forearm hard on Red’s neck while he gut punched Red over and over again.

Two other two troops had Red’s sister cornered and were tearing at her clothes as she cried and fought back, but she was obviously overmatched and losing.

Liz felt her fury rise fast and hot… she really had no choice… with a strangled cry she broke cover and charged down the hillside.

The soldier working over Red saw her first, his widening eyes barely having time to register the sight of this furious Giantess charging down at him before her Boot connected, punting him with a bone cracking noise and launching him well above the treeline and off toward the horizon.

She turned and grabbed the other two assholes by the neck and smashed their faces against each other, then tossed them both far off into the lake.

Liz was turning to reassure the small young girl when she heard Red cry out, followed by the loud bark of cannon fire and a dull impact on the lower right side of her back, the force enough to spin her halfway around to see a soldier in the turret hatch of the APC that she’d neglected to check– he was furiously cranking the gun elevation for a head-shot when she drew her sidearm and blasted him to a bloody mess.

“Fuck fuck… oh jesus… fuck…” she chattered as the shock wore off and a massive jolt of pain brought her to her knees.

Red and his sister watched in open mouthed shock as Liz fought her way back to her feet and staggered off, nearly blind with pain, half trotting up the hill and toward her hidey hole… leaving a trail of blood spatters in her wake.

The trek back to her shelter was a pain filled red fog… and she crawled in just as the darkness was closing her vision with a contracting iris of oblivion.

* * *

A dim light joined the dull ache that had been her first shred of self awareness… that and a cool tingly wash against her sore back… then she hears Red’s quiet voice, and his sister’s questioning reply. Red repeats whatever he said and moments later Liz recognizes the low putter of one of the villagers small alcohol powered four-wheelers receding into the distance outside of her shelter.

Her eyes fly open and she tries to get up on her hands and knees, but the spike of pain in her flank and Red’s frantic waving downward prompt her to settle back. She’s lying on her stomach in the shelter, and a very concerned looking Red is standing nearby, next to a small pile of bloodstained linens, water buckets, and other unrecognizable stuff.

“Fixed me up didja loverboy?” Liz croaks ruefully.

Red looks puzzled.

Liz reaches around, wincing, and feels her back– there’s a makeshift dressing wrapped around her midsection. Red nods and reaches into a nearby bucket, pulling out a nasty looking deformed metal slug, makes a face, and points at her backside.

“knew you werea good egg” Liz mumbles along with a weak thumbs up that makes Red step back a bit until he understands it’s ok, then he nods and mimics the gesture.

“so tired” Liz manages… before she drifts off again.

Gradually her wakeful moments become more frequent. Sometimes Red is there to carefully change her dressings and feed her a thin soup he’s got in a cask that he rolls off the back of the four wheeler. Sometimes she wakes up alone, but in those cases there’s always food and drink within easy reach. She starts testing sitting up, and after a few setbacks she has some small victories. They start working on language– She learns that his sister’s name is “Denya” and he’s called “Kuden” but she jokingly insists on calling him Red anyway, and he finally gives up and applies her word for the thumbs up gesture-

ok Liz,” he laughs, “Red.”

Days and weeks go by, Liz gradually recovering from what by amounted to a gunshot wound– luckily far enough off center to miss anything important. She doubted that even Red’s good care could have pulled her though if her kidney or something else had been shattered. She starts taking small walks in the wee hours, Red hovering nearby in the little four wheeler like some kind of 12 inch tall nanny, fussing at her if he thought she was pushing herself too hard.

Finally after about six weeks they both agree that she’s recovered enough to resume her regular search for a way home. To celebrate her recovery, Red brings some of the hamlet’s stronger liquor, a rich purple meadlike drink.

But the mood is sort of bittersweet, both expecting that their regular contact will be diminished as they return to the routines they had before the encounter with the Occupiers.

Liz raises her small cask to Red and addresses him with some of what she’d picked up from their language work– “You saved me Red, fair skies to you and your kith,” then continues “I’m in your debt.”

“You saved us Liz. No debt owed.” Red promptly replies.

“aw Red, how could I let them hurt my secret bath watcher?” Liz replies, teasing him for the first time about their encounter at the lake.

Red’s face flushes and he looks down, totally embarrassed.

Liz sets her finger under the little man’s chin and lifts his face as she unbuttons her shirt.

“C’mon Red, you know you want to…” Liz says quietly as she curls her hand around his little butt and urges him to climb up onto her lap and into her topless embrace, “I do too.”

Afterwards, both naked and satisfied, Red nuzzling contentedly between her breasts, Liz marvels at the many ways they found to give each other pleasure. And that little beard… whew!

And the next morning they begin to make plans over breakfast. Plans to start disrupting the Occupiers from behind the lines… hopefully enough to give Red’s fighting people the opening they need to reclaim their lands.