D is for Dollhouse, the little place I build and furnish in the land of my imagination, and have begun to do so in real life as well.
A tiny home for a tiny man, it’s a place with miniature rooms, fixtures, bed, dressers, books, pots and pans; everything with a design faithful to the purpose of their comparably giant counterparts, but small enough so he can use them without my help.
This small house looks like a young girl’s toy, but it’s wired to provide him with a minuscule amount of electricity, and it’s connected to a water source as well, because a man needs to be able to shower and flush the toilet, no matter how reduced in size he’s become.
The doors and windows of this home are large enough to allow my hand entry when the time comes, and it always does, especially after kneeling on the floor to peek in, to spy on his little activities, especially those that relate to his need for water.
It’s also a home small enough that I can move from room to room, that I can lift with my hands and take with me wherever I go. If I never build one of my own in reality, if I never buy another miniature for it for the rest of my days, I’ll still have the one in my imagination to give to the little man that lives there.
* * *
P.S. I used to think the image above was a collage, but the little guy in the shower looks too much like a shrunken G.I. Joe, so I don’t know. Whether it’s something produced by one of us, or a publicity shot, I still like it!
Edit: Well, I found what seems to be the original image, so I’m inclined to think it’s (at least) partially a doll, given there’s a visible neck joint. It makes me wonder how effective it would be to use both doll body sections and images of real men to form a composite element for collages. Again, that’s something I’ll find out after I win the lottery, end world hunger and all wars, and enforce peace on Earth (or else).
B is for Brownies. I published this recipe at my old blog about eighteen months ago. I only have a few old ABC’s entries left to publish, and playing the game—even if only with myself—means I will be following the order of the letters of the alphabet from this point on, when I create new entries for this series.
I’d been planning to create a collage to accompany my brownie recipe for quite some time, but only after I found a suitable shrunken-man source image was I able to figure out the sort of photos I wanted to take of my brownies; so the image you see above is of my window, of a curtain I sewed years ago, and of brownies I baked. I think this is the first collage I’ve published that include raw images I created, instead of stealing downloading them from the Internet.
Underbrownies
7 T. butter
1 c. sugar
1 t. vanilla extract
2 eggs
1/2 c. unbleached all-purpose flour
1/3 c. cocoa
1/2 t. aluminum-free baking powder
1/4 t. sea salt
1/2 c. chopped, toasted walnuts
1. Heat oven to 350° degrees. If you have a toaster oven then you don’t have to heat up the entire kitchen to make these.
2. Grease and flour a small pan of any shape.
3. In food processor, combine butter and sugar until well mixed.
4. Add vanilla and mix until incorporated.
5. Add eggs and mix until well blended-
-Or add it all at the same time, for all I care. The result is the same when I blend it all lovingly and in order, than when I dump it all in the processor (I do recommend mixing the butter and sugar first), nuts last, and pour into pan.
6. Bake for about fifteen minutes. Don’t overbake, or you’ll end up making chocolate rock.
7. Cool, cut in sixteen pieces, and eat one with your sweetie before you kiss him/her. Brownie breath is a guaranteed shrinking potion. It only works on men, of course.
If I receive one single philistine comment about how baking is women’s work, I’ll crush ya like a twig and snap ya like a bug.
* * *
As I chose the elements for the collage above, a scene played in my head. Some will understand when I tell you that events between a shrunken man and a woman don’t always have to include sexual activities. Daily routine can become their prelude, and activities such as visiting, making friends, listening to music, cleaning the house, etc., can lay the foundation for an emotional state ripe with the right kind of tension.
In this case, the emotion I use to color interaction is a deep sense of trust combined with size-related frustration. A man that shrinks to a mere few inches in height will remember a time his wife might have baked him brownies, and he would have polished the entire plate as he watched TV, later burning those calories in the yard, or in the bedroom.
He will recall there was a time he could have closed his hand around his wife’s delicate wrist when the doorbell rang announcing relatively unwanted visitors, and he could have pulled her into his arms as he whispered, “Let’s pretend we are not home, and maybe they’ll go away….”
There is a weight pressing on him that has nothing to do with his wife’s finger or toe; a heavy feeling of helplessness as he watches his life shrink and be absorbed by his mate’s actions. The only thing that rescues him from despair is the absolute trust he feels in his beloved. It carries him as safely as her hand during moments when it seems even the air he breathes is something she allows him to have, and can take away if she so desired it; those times when his responses to disappointment regress to a child-like state; those instances when events slip away as he’s shown a shrunken man may control only that ever-changing sphere the woman that loves him declares his province; those times such as these….
“They are mine,” he said, his hips pressing possessively against the brownie closest to his hips, the one sandwiched in the middle of the stack. That tiny thrust was almost imperceptible given his size, and he seemed too angry to have meant it to be seductive, but his naked body was glued to those baked goods as though they were some sort of salvation; and that moist, warm brownie molded like clay to the shape of his body sent her thoughts adrift to other times he had moved similarly against her body.
“Honey, I can bake you more brownies after they leave, ” she said placatingly. She could see wet chocolate stains beginning to spread onto his torso and his delicious thighs, and forced herself to look away from his midriff, up to his chocolate-colored eyes. He looked good enough to eat, and he would probably taste delicious at the moment, but that sort of fun would have to wait until they were alone in the house again.
She looked over her shoulder at the bedroom door, and listened to her friends chatting in the living room. Again his voice, as diminished in volume as it now was, seemed to somehow get louder. She faced him again as he stood next to the brownies on the plate.
“I don’t want different brownies later; I want these, and I want them now!” his words ended with the whine of a child threatened by willpower much greater than his own. “You baked them for me. I’ve been waiting for you to bake me these brownies for weeks! You are going to have to give them something else to eat.” He stretched his arm along the edge of the top brownie, and his little fingers clasped it greedily. They hadn’t been out of the oven very long, but he didn’t seem to mind their warmth.
“Unfortunately I can’t help the whole house smelling like them, darling. If I had known they were coming I would have baked a double batch. Sweetie, be reasonable! You are too small to eat them all anyway! One of these little squares would last you a month- alright, a week, the way you eat sometimes.” She threw him a playful smile, but he didn’t return it.
“They should have called you first, before butting in and interrupting our weekend!”
Beginning to feel a touch of annoyance, she sighed, and watched his hair be blown back by gust of wind she had created. “Sweetie, this is the South. People don’t do that. They expect to be able to drop by casually and be served iced tea and comfort food in an impeccable home. They expect impromptu politeness, and hospitality at the drop of a hat.”
“But you are Hispanic. They can’t expect you to behave that way.” He realized immediately he had put his little foot in his mouth when her lips tightened, and when he spoke again, his voice was little more than a squeak.
“Tell them they can’t have-”
“What do you mean ‘they can’t expect me to behave that way’? And do you see me doing that? Do you really think I’m going to go back out there and tell them ‘Sorry ladies, my tiny shrunken husband is a greedy, selfish baby, and he refuses to yield even a single brownie square. We’ll have to scavenge the fridge for any leftover Chinese food that hasn’t turned, and whatever cheese we can slice away from mold we can put on Ritz crackers.”
His gaze, no longer blazing with anger, dropped for a moment.
“Well, er… um-” He shook his head softly, sinking his chin into the brownie corner the heat of his body had rounded out. His fingers dug into the still warm mass of chocolate like fish hooks, as though he could still prevent her from taking the plate away from him.
“I’m offering my friends these brownies, and there isn’t a thing you can do about it. They will stay in my house for as long as they wish, and they they will eat anything they want from my fridge. And after they leave I’ll come back here and we’ll have a long conversation about your manners, and your small place in the grand scheme of my things.”
She reached for the plate, and he barely had time to jump off it and onto the bedside table where the stack- his stack of brownies had been cooling off. His pressed lips turned into a pout as he watched her walk away with them in hand.
Only now did he begin to realize there might not be any sort of sweetness headed his way this Saturday night if he didn’t work his way to her good graces. He looked down at his body. Almost the entire front of it was painted brown with melted brownie marks. He thought they could be useful.
Careful not to accidentally wipe clean any of it, he sat on the lamp base. In the distance, in the living room that felt as though it was a town away, he could hear laughter and womanly conversation, interrupted by moans of culinary appreciation as his wife’s friends devoured his brownies.
Alone, he waited.
* * *
And here’s the example file, the way I initially composed the image. There isn’t that much difference between the former and the latter.
When I found this image of a cat looking up at a flock of birds, I thought it was adorable, and I saved it. I thought it would make for a great lolz giantess image.
The perspective makes me imagine it’s a giant kitty, one that follows the earth-shattering footsteps of her owner everywhere she goes. She likes to savor the moment when she spots a delicious snack flying by, watching it until it seems out of reach as she licks her chops in anticipation of the feast, and then she swats its path with her huge claw.
I’m sure the giantess has trained her to capture her meals as gently as possible, so as to try to avoid hurting the little humans. And because lolcats material always tastes better with some ’80s French Euro Disco (I also could have placed a Flock song here)…
What? You know you thought about it too. Bring us the size-different claymation porn, film industry!
I’ll be back later to delete these terribly crass words and compose a sensible message. In the meantime, call your mother.
(A week later…)
As it turns out, I won’t be deleting any words from the above; otherwise Trinket’s evil cackle in the comment section won’t make any sense.
For weeks this day visited my mind as I wondered what sort of entry belonged here on Mother’s Day. I mean, who in their right mind would attempt to establish a connection between motherhood and the giantess (or shrinking) fetish? What sort of abominable direction would thoughts have to take to direct a man to the sort of situation that reduces him to the size of a small child; that shrinks his abilities to the scope of a baby’s; that threatens to take away his manly manhood until he’s nothing but a fragile bundle of flailing arms and legs in the hand of a woman?
Don’t play coy. I saw that look on your face.
What?
You’ve never thought of such a thing? You don’t know what I’m talking about? I got some ’splainin’ to do?
Nothing simpler. The relationship between a man and a much taller woman comes in many sizes, and they don’t always have to do with height. Sizes can have to do with emotions, maturity, physicality, etc., and the perception of them, whether it’s enforced or volunteered. There has never been a blurrier line between having no choice but to experience something and offering to do so, than in these fantasies.
In other words, if a woman wakes up one morning and smiles at the little bundle of joy still sleeping next to her, and she decides that tiny pile of hairy limbs that also comes with morning breath and face bristles is going to play baby that day, there is nothing that shrunken man can do about it. Gone are his pants, to be replaced by a diaper she will probably insist he uses; absent are his meals, and instead he’s obliged to struggle in the folds of a baby blanket, and to open his small mouth to accept whatever food she decides he needs; disappeared is the dollhouse and all its accoutrements, replaced by a crib, or a baby pen; and so on.
Why are these terrible things happening to this perfectly mature little guy? What possesses his lovely lady to forget his age, the years he was allowed to spend in school, his ability to speak? Why does he struggle in her grip, and fight her every move with all the strength he has, knowing full well all his efforts are in vain? I don’t know. Don’t ask me, I only blog here.
I found a set of Harvey Nichols ads that utilize Wallace & Gromit characters, and I was left with no choice but to alter them. When I watched The Curse Of The Were-Rabbit DVD extras, they included footage of the tiny village in which the claymation characters interacted. Guess the sort of things I was thinking then.
If I worked in the film industry, and got to erect those small towns, with all those little streets and buildings, I’d come to the stage late at night with my camera and film myself interacting with the miniatures. I’d be fired the next morning when my DNA is found all over them, and it would all come out after I become a famous author, completely ruining my chances to publish children’s books… or maybe improving them.
While watching the movie I had some thoughts about a tiny Wallace interacting with Lady Tottington. They could not be helped, which is less than I can say about her hair. I transformed her into a brunette, and decided it would make for a nice greeting card.
The two images that accompany this entry are extremely low-res, and for a reason. Back when I had the old blog at Giantess.com, there was a series of entries I began to develop titled, “Adventures in collaging”.
In the two that I was able to post I discussed a couple of collaging aspects: splashes (as in those produced by the feet of a massive giantess), and shadows, lighting and reflections. I thought I’d enjoy doing the same thing at this blog, and from time to time discussing different things about what I consider the incredible waste of time of my choice, collaging.
The reasons these two images are of such low quality and only of medium size is because they are “example” files. The first thing you do when you collage giantesses and shrunken men is acquire material. For the most part this material is saved from the Internet, which makes this first thing an extremely easy task.
What I do next is group material in folders that end up containing the layered Photoshop file, the raw materials, and the final jpg. There’s one last image that has become part of my standard operating procedure when collaging, and it’s the example file. When I’m pairing raw material, I do it with Photoshop, and not with the naked eye, and when I’m done pairing raw material, the resulting image is reduced in size, named Example, and saved.
It’s a very quick, rough version of what I imagine the final image will look like. There are pixels leftover, mismatched skin tones, wrong shadows, etc., but the purpose of the example file is to allow me to see the potential of the raw materials, and the amount of work I will have to do to get it to look good in the end.
It helps me, because sometimes I decide the end result is not worth the effort. Another thing it does is allow me to recall what the heck it is that I wanted to do with that raw material in the first place. I forget sometimes. In the past I’ve opened a folder months after saving it, and it’s happened a few times that I have no idea what I was thinking when I downloaded its contents.
Sure, it’s not really difficult to puzzle it out, but an example file makes for a time-saving template. Simple, and effective.
I think ultra giantesses get a bum rap. I’ve read arguments at the boards about interaction, and how it becomes increasingly difficult as the giantess rises in height. While such concern for realism is touching, I’m going to have to say that the very moment one begins to fantasize about beings of drastically different sizes, one should abandon all endeavors in trying to convey a penchant for realism.
Interaction is possible between all sizes. It doesn’t matter if the giantess wears Earth as a pendant that swings from her neck with every step she takes in space, or if the shrunken man is so small his ride is a microscopic mite that lives on his wife’s inner thigh; if the thought we are having makes us tingle, then whatever arguments against it, however logical and entertaining, stem from the naysayer’s inability to feel the same shiver of delight, and not from the imagined knowledge of physics, biology, chemistry, etc., regarding someone measuring an incredible height.
In other words, it is perfectly natural for me to enjoy the vision of growing thousands of miles until a single footprint is the size of a country, and at the same time being able to carry a conversation with the recipient of my attention and the target of my blatant display of size superiority. I understand many people don’t feel the same way; I comprehend the desire to discuss our various preferences and the reasons why we have them; and I will never get why anyone becomes agitated when a member of the community likes something they don’t.
But let’s forget those people! They aren’t here anyway. I love the thought of growing so tall this planet becomes my own pet rock. There’s no connection between that fantasy and destruction: I don’t inhale all of Earth’s atmosphere in a single breath, I don’t dent the planet’s layers or shift them with my weight when I move or lounge, I do nothing that causes the death of a single person. On the contrary, all I do is bring pleasure to one little man of normal size, and myself.
It’s the closest I get to weaving the “goddess” concept into my giantess fantasies. A being that size who is also omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent can very well be defined as a deity. If a man- if the man was to look out his window and see the sky overtaken by the shape of a face he knows well, blue gone and replaced by the deep pink of her lips as she blows kisses that melt every cloud in his direction, day transformed into a temporary night brightened by the playful glint in her eyes as large as moons… I bet he’d have worshipful thoughts, if he’s able to think at all.
I can imagine being in her place, all the way up here, looking down and seeing everything, but focusing my attention on that little window that frames his sweet little body and shows me he just dropped his pants. I’d have a hard time thinking coherently as well.
Long story short: Fire bad, ultra giantesses good.
This is a terrible song, but I can’t help liking it.
A is for Anchor, the very thing I need after a growth spurt.
At 203′5″ in height, my mirrors are glass-covered buildings, and the streets that divide them the narrow paths I tread carefully, gentle giantess that I am.
To feel so tall, to see it all from up here makes me giggle with delight, and I always forget what happens when I giggle: I grow!
By the time I’ve regained composure, I’ve grown a few dozen feet, and my slightly shredded blouse has lost its buttons, tabletop-sized projectiles that have pierced walls here, landed on a pizza delivery boy there. Oops.
I move quickly as I hold those tattered remnants together and make my way to the pier, where I spot my Little One’s boat bobbing gently in the water as he gets ready to drop what I need.
I smile at him as I pinch the boat’s tiny anchor by the shank, and I lift it to mend my blouse, hooking two loose ends with its curved arms. It works perfectly!
I was poking around the Series of Tubes looking for sexy ads with shrunken men in them, and instead I found something* about relationships that made me roll my eyes. and then imagine my own, as I often do. So I saved it, made a series of spectacular improvements, and now I present it to you.
1. In both cases, male and female, this represents a relationship with your hand as compared with the examples that follow. Calling it “bad” is extreme, considering how often men and women engage in entanglements with their hand even if there’s someone special in their lives. A woman in that universe in which little men are available would still do better to go out and buy one at the nearest iPet store.
2. Of course I think my natural inclination is more than “alright”. A woman and a man, and just one of each, is great! But I’m looking at it through the glass of my fantasies. The Undersquid that lives there thinks that normal-sized men are nice, but shrinking a man very small and carrying him to her bedroom where she proceeds to manhandle him in a thousand wonderful ways is what she prefers.
3. What I just mentioned. This is the basis of everything that takes place in my mind. There’s one woman, and one shrunken man. He’s very special, and every day she lets him know she’s aware of how wonderful he is. Alright, plenty of times they are just writhing in the sack… but there’s always something, some little sign that shows them both there is no one else they’d prefer in bed.
4. Forget everything I just said. No, truly the above is the core of my thoughts, but there’s this collage I’ll be working on until the year 3009, about a woman, and a little guy, and… a man. The elements for it kinda fell into my lap. The initial image showed a woman and a man about to kiss, so I thought I’d shrink the man and have the woman bend low for a sweet kiss. She’s grabbing his shirt with a coiled fist that suddenly looked great for a handheld collage, and months ago I found a man that looks down in a grumpy, concerned manner. Somehow, a story began to unravel in my head.
5. The last sign shows what I think Snow White should really be about. Forget the prince. Who the hell does he think he is, arriving suddenly and taking her away from her lovers friends? When I was very small, I actually thought the “dwarfs” were little men only a few inches in height. I was about two or three years old when my mom first read me the story, and although I couldn’t vocalize it, I clearly recall thinking about these seven tiny men, and wondering how in the world Snow White could fit on their beds, even if they were all lined up together.
Needless to say, I was enraged when she left with that normal-sized jerk.
Keane – Everybody’s Changing
*I didn’t spot it at deviantART, but here’s the original image at the creator’s page.
When this out-of-the-ordinary giantess comes to town…
…Q is for Questions. People arrive in droves to her side, some to gawk, others to report, and soon the rapid-fire questions begin, from the unoriginal, to the downright rude, or the insane:
“Wow, how tall are you?”
“Are you cruel, or gentle?”
“What do you do to little guys like us?”
“Can you step on me?”
“Will you eat me?”
The cacophony is the same everywhere she visits. She closes her eyes, almost wincing, and almost smiles to herself when she thinks of what would happen if she stood to full height and stomped her foot angrily, saying, “HELLO TO YOU TOO! NICE TO MEET YOU. SO, HOW ABOUT ASKING MY NAME FIRST?”
The questions would stop, and she would have some peace. Instead she remembers to be patient, to know that not often do people say the wisest thing when their minds and eyes are overwhelmed by an astounding sight. She knows that’s what she is. She smiles openly now and readies her first answer when she notices him.
Q is for Quiet, the silent man all the way in the back, the one that carries a single flower, a gift that shows her he likes to give and not to take. She forgets what she was going to say, enthralled as she is with his face and the way he holds that single bloom she knows will get lost between the pinch of her digits.
Q is for Quintuple, those shapes that now descend for him, crossing that chasm between them, over the crowd’s voices and street. Five amazonian fingers, all longer than he is tall, not grabbing, but respectfully draping like the thickest rug over the ground for him to climb, so she may lift him to her and leave the rest behind.
* * *
In the Gcode collage I picked for this entry there isn’t a crowd milling about staring at the giantess, but it’s one of my favorite ones by him, and it’s close to what I see in my heart as the visit of a giantess. In my mind she isn’t a mad creature that likes to stomp on people, or devour them. She likes to spend time with the little ones, to enjoy the visions they offer her with their infinitesimal life, and to go home leaving them unharmed.
I figure this old image has been seen by shrinking and giantess fans at least three million times. I live in the back, so I only spotted it a few days ago. Shirley you understand I had to sneak it in here and show it to y’all. I’m not sure if it’s an ad, but it was taken by Helmut Newton, who clearly had a giantess fetish, or maybe a G.I. Joe fetish.
Either way, I like the image despite its blatant display of shoes I would not be caught comatose wearing, and because I’m a proud owner of a G.I. Joe sex toy myself. It reminds me of scenes in that movie I have yet to go see, Monsters vs. Aliens, and it reminds me of the humor in that sort of situation.
Ya know, little guy with a puny weapon thinks he can take on a woman many times his size, and before you can say “squish”, he is. In my mind, bullets of any caliber tickle. In fact, missiles, aircrafts, meteorites, alien mother ships, hurling planets, swirling galaxies, they all tickle when they make impact on the skin of a giantess the various sizes I’ve imagined myself to be.
And I like his Lobot gear. What sort of input would a shrunken man get through that sort of apparatus? “Proximity warning! Alert! Alert! Danger is afoot! Warning, warnihhhfffzzzzggh- ” . I’ve mentioned to you before I’m not fond of violently crushing a little man, but every once in a while I’m in a position that helps me see the bright side in that sort of situation, particularly when I’m dealing with people that say one thing and act another, or refuse to provide me with excellent customer service, or sell me something that will break after one use.
In other news, I love my friends even though they send me endless email forwards, and choose to date / marry the wrong person, and go through silly and unnecessary cosmetic “enhancements”, and make me add one Facebook application after another.
Tell no one I reached level 17 in Mafia Wars. It’s our little secret, yes?
