Giantess Stories: Executive Priviledge

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Executive Priviledge


by Andrew Nellis

a.k.a. the Poison Pen

[email protected]

copyright 1998

"Congratulations, Madame President," said the Secretary of State.

President Rodham (never Hillary, not if you valued your job or your testicles)

nodded as she passed him in the hall. And well they should congratulate her, she

thought to herself with a smug smile. The first female President of the United

States and the first to make the jump from First Lady to Executive-in-Chief, all

in a single triumphant moment. Not to mention hauling the Democratic asses out

of the fire her idiotic husband had started. If he hadn't had the decency to

drop dead of a massive coronary in the middle of the presidential primaries she

might well have had to... well, she thought with a sly smile that spread like

oil over her face, it hadn't come to that.

Everywhere she turned in the halls of the White House, people were only too

pleased to extend a hand in congratulation to the conquering hero, their voices

obsequious with awe. Some of them had known her for years, yet somehow she had

gained a lustre of power that had not been there before, that shone from her

skin like dangerous radioactive light. And dangerous she was. Her skirt was a

little too short, revealing soft, pale swaths of feminine thigh; her white silk

blouse was a little too tight, drawing attention to the generous swelling of her

breasts; the heels on her black pumps were a little too high, adding definition

to the graceful curves of her calves and displaying her slim ankles. Her

advisors had warned her that she was too daring, to colourful, that she risked

alienating the conservative voters; but she had known better. The cameras loved

her, loved to linger on her beautiful body. Everything about her screamed power,

both temporal and sexual. She knew that every man -- and not a few women -- in

the nation mentally subtracted her clothes, knew she visited them in their

fantasies every night clad in leather or PVC or black lace or nothing at all.

Just thinking about it was enough to send pleasant tingles through her groin.

The air was icy against her womanhood as it grew damp, bare as it nearly always

was, as it had been during the whole campaign -- a risk which would have

horrified her advisors had they known.

It grows dark early in Washington D.C. at that time of year, and by the time

Hillary reached her goal in the west wing, the November sun was already setting.

She didn't have much time if she was going to celebrate; and she had already

promised herself this celebration since long before Bill had keeled over. In a

few hours, she would be giving her inaugural address to the waiting nation, and

she had every intention of first keeping her promise to herself.

"Wait here," said Hillary to the two ghost-like Secret Service agents who

trailed behind her. She had long since accepted their presence with the fatalism

that comes from years being First Lady to President of the United States, and

thus a potential target for every terrorist and crackpot with a rifle. The two

men in conservative blue suits took up positions in the hallway.

"Lawgiver in the vault," mumbled one of the men into his throat pick-up.

Lawgiver was the presidential code name the Secret Service had given her,

Hillary knew. Somewhere in a secure room in the basement of the White House, she

also knew someone would be moving a pin on a pushboard floorplan, keeping track

of her movements. In the years to come, she would get little or no privacy; all

the more reason to celebrate now, to sate certain... hungers.

The vault. That's the code name they had assigned this room. In the previous

months and years, Hillary had come here often. She had the room swept for

monitoring devices twice a day. It was soundproof, vibration-proof, and the

walls were pressurized like the pipes which carried the White House phone lines

so that any attempt to drill a hole in them would set alarms ringing. It had its

own bathroom, a well-stocked bar, and a small refrigerator. It was not an office

in any official sense, and no one came here except her; but it had a heavy

walnut desk, a comfortable, upholstered chair, and a couch which could be turned

into a bed. Significantly, there were no phones, no faxes, no modems, no

television, no radio, nothing except a discreet chime which could be used to

alert her that she was wanted. This room had been her hideaway from the world,

and it was she who had had it modified to provide her with the most privacy she

could expect. Not even the lovers she had taken over the years had been

permitted to enter.

Hillary closed the door behind her and turned the lock. It could not be opened

from the other side, although the Secret Service men could probably kick it in

if they had to. The door was steel plate covered in a veneer of hardwood; she

would have ample warning if someone tried to force it. Save for the window which

looked out over Pensylvania Avenue, she might as well have been in a submarine

fifty fathoms deep.

Between her breasts, the alien metal was strangely cool.

The lighting in the room was subdued and diffused, leaving a kind of shadowless

twilight. Hillary mixed herself a martini, taking a very unladylike gulp before

padding silently through the deep pile to the window. She was pleased to see

that the sun had not yet set, which would give her plenty of selection. How many

times had she done this, she wondered. Dozens, at least. Just one or two at a

time, nothing that would attract unwanted attention. Not that they could stop

her. An evil, thin-lipped grin twisted her face into a cruel sneer. She was now

the most powerful person on the planet in every respect... as she was always

meant to be.

Hillary placed her eye to the powerful telescope which stood on a tripod before

the window. The cars passing down Pennsylvania Avenue and the streets beyond

snapped into focus, the faces of the drivers clearly visible. Slowly, she panned

the telescope, browsing as she might for treasures in an antique shop. A flash

of light from the fading sun reflecting from a windshield blinded her for a

moment and she cursed, blinking. By the time she could see again, darkness was

falling over the city. She had to hurry.

There. The end of the telescope moved minutely as she tracked her target, a

large coach which had just passed out of the gates. Through the bus' darkened

glass windows, she could see just enough movement to be certain it was solidly

packed with tourists returning from the last White House tour of the day. But

did she dare? That many, all at once, practically on her front lawn? Her smile

returned. Yes. Yes, it was time to take a chance. If being the most powerful

person in the world didn't mean you could take risks forbidden to mere mortals,

what good was it for? Still smiling, she reached between her breasts and

extracted the small grey cube which had travelled the vast distances between the


Everything anyone had ever believed about alien conspiracies was, in fact,

right. This never failed to make Hillary laugh. Since the earliest times, aliens

had been making contact with chieftans and kings and emperors and heads of

state. It had to be the most open secret in the history of humanity. They had

drawn aliens on the walls of caves, in pyramids, on ziggurats; they had written

of them in the Old Testament and the Q'uran; ancient American natives had carved

whopping great pictograms miles long in the earth itself as markers for those

ancient star travellers. In recent years, movies and television programs and

books by the tens of thousands had insisted that there was a global alien

conspiracy -- and they were right. It was the aliens themselves, whose knowledge

of the human psyche surpassed the total body of psychiatric thought on the

planet, who had taught the Earth's leaders the best place to hide a secret:

right out in the open.

Hillary snorted in amusement as she held the cube clutched in her fist, thinking

of the arrogance of the little grey beings who would not deign to share their

technology with mere humans. Well, the humans had learned a few things from

their alien mentors. Why would the aliens think to look for their downed saucer

in Area 51, the worst kept secret in America? There were hundreds who had seen

the wrecked hulk of the alien vessel, and hundreds more who had seen the

dissected bodies of the dead alien crew. Dozens of photographs had been taken,

documenting everything, and deliberately leaked to the fringe press. It was so

obvious that even most Americans themselves would laugh at such a ridiculous

idea. Score one for the Earthlings.

Though the saucer had been utterly demolished in the crash, killing its entire

alien crew, many components had survived intact. In fact, much of the technology

taken from the craft had been of enormous value, earning America a reputation as

a leader in many different fields, from superconductors and fibre optics to

computers and theoretical physics. There were some things, however, which had

simply defied any analysis, and likely always would. The cube President Rodham

held in her hands was one such item. As nearly as anyone could tell, the thing

was solid, with no seams, totally incapable of the astounding function it

performed. There was no discernible power source. It did not emanate any form of

radiation that modern instruments could detect. It was opaque to even the

strongest x-rays. Only a very few tame scientists knew of its existence, and

none of them had any idea of its current whereabouts after being confiscated for

reasons of "national security." It was Hillary who had convinced her husband to

acquire it for her as a gift, little enough payment for keeping quiet about his

inability to keep it in his pants. And now it was time to use it again.

Hillary followed the bus through the eyepiece of the telescope. She would know

when it was time. She saw the bus turn and jerked the telescope quickly to the

right, scanning up the street onto which it was turning. One, maybe two cars.

How likely were they to see? She thought with the unearthly speed that had

brought her to the top of the world. The sun was in their eyes, they had no

reason to look back. Apartments? Someone on a balcony, watching? There was

always that risk. She had taken it before. She would take it again. She focused

her mind on the cube in her hand while continuing to watch the tour bus.

Visualize, she told herself, visualize...

The bus vanished.

There was no flash of light, no clap of imploding air. The bus simply stopped

existing there, carrying with it all its passengers.

In Hillary's hand, the grey cube throbbed with familiar warmth for a fraction of

a second, and then something roughly the size and shape of a loaf of bread

materialized on the carpet in front of her. It looked suspiciously like a very

tiny tour bus. Complete with equally tiny passengers.

"Christ!" The bus driver slammed on the air brakes in panic as the street

disappeared around him. He was not travelling fast, maybe thirty miles per hour,

but a bus that size, carrying that many people, could not stop on a dime. The

entire bus shook and rattled as the tires bounced over an uneven, yielding

surface. Less than a second later, the driver barely had time to register the

impossibility of what he was seeing before the underside of a shiny black patent

pump impacted against the top of the bus right near the front and exploded the

windshield into a shower of broken glass.

The bus was still moving when it appeared on the carpet, and Hillary placed her

foot on top of it to stop it. The metal made screeching noises and crumpled a

little, like an aluminum can. The little bus' windshield made a musical tinkling

noise as it broke. Before any of the occupants might consider disembarking,

Hillary scooped up the bus with both hands. She was careful to avoid the engine,

the underside, and the hot exhaust, having burned herself in the past. It was a

surprisingly weighty burden despite its toy-like size, and Hillary was glad to

be able to drop the thing heavily onto the desk.

Inside the bus, people were lying in awkward piles in the aisles and draped over

the seats amidst a clutter of cameras and White House tour pamphlets. The

initial impact had thrown them violently out of their seats, and the subsequent

wild swooping motions had only added to the confusion. There was no screaming as

yet, but the shouts and urgent complaints had a hysterical edge as more and more

of them disentangled themselves and made their way to a window. The driver, his

face bloody from the deep cut on his forehead, was trying to keep things under

control by ordering everyone to remain in their seats. His efforts were

undermined by the tour guide, a young blonde woman hired more for the size of

her breasts than talent, who was bright-eyed and incoherent with terror. Before

he could turn to calm her, something massive plowed through the remains of the

windshield, throwing him violently from his seat. With a shriek of tortured

metal, the part of the coach roof nearest him peeled away.

Hillary watched the developing panic in the little bus for a few seconds,

enjoying the feeling of anticipation. Then she forced her fingers through the

empty windshield and, placing her thumb on the top of the bus, tore the first

third of the roof up like so much tinfoil so that it pointed straight up at the

ceiling. Tiny screams floated up through the hole she had torn, and made her

lips curve into a sinister smile. They would soon have much more to scream


"LAST STOP," came a voice like the peal of feminine thunder to the people on the

bus. The back of the bus tilted up at a forty-five degree angle, sending the

occupants tumbling helplessly forward. Many bounced right over the seat tops and

rolled through the gaping hole where the windshield used to be. Those who had

fallen out, including the driver and the tour guide, stood to find themselves on

a desktop which was, to them, a huge wooden platform like a butte in a vast

carpeted canyon. More terrifying still was the familiar face that loomed up over

top of them with its bob of blonde hair.

Every tiny face was turned in Hillary's direction. She estimated that they were

about two inches tall, which made her roughly the size of a fifteen storey

building to them; a beautiful blonde goddess. Putting on her warmest smile, she

addressed her little captives.

"My fellow Americans. I'd like to welcome you all and thank you for coming. As

you can see, you are all guests in the White House. I am your hostess, President

Hillary Rodham of the United States of America and it is my hope that you will

all enjoy your stay... however short it is. If those of you who are still on the

bus will kindly step off the bus, we can get things started."

There was a stunned silence as all the passengers traded looks of confusion.

Their fear had been replaced by incomprehension. More people climbed from the

bus, to stare up at the titaness who beamed beneficiently back at them from what

appeared to be seven storeys overhead. A very few who were small enough to do so

hid under the seats of the coach and cried softly to themselves, praying they

would not be noticed.

"Everyone off?" said Hillary, raising her eyebrows. "Good. Now some of you can

get back on."

Hillary bent to examine her little prisoners. They drew back in fear as her

breasts pressed close, like slik-clad steamrollers. "You and you and you," she

said, pointing to several of them. One by one, she went through the crowd,

separating out those whom she considered too old or too unattractive to be of

any use. When she had finished, a quarter of the crowd had obediently and with

some relief climbed back onto the bus. Over a hundred still stood on the desk.

Once again, Hillary took the alien cube into her hand and looked at the little

bus, concentrating. She knew she couldn't very well leave evidence. In an

eyeblink, the bus had vanished, and where it had been was an oblong speck a

quarter of an inch in length, so small that any of the tiny two-inch people

could have held it easily in their hands. A collective gasp rose from the crowd

on Hillary's desk.

"This is how I did it," said Hillary, holding up the cube. "It came from aliens.

No, it's true, really. I'm the president. Would I lie to you?" She grinned. "Now

if you'll excuse me for a moment, I really think I need a drink."

Hillary scooped the minute, ant-sized bus from the desk with the concave curve

on the underside of her index fingernail, rolling the vehicle over a few times

before she could get underneath it. With smooth economy of motion, she dumped

the thing into her martini with a very tiny splash.

The people on the bus had only a moment to realize that everything around them

had changed again, that the wood grain of the desk now rose around them like

foothills. Then they were screaming as a vast shadow fell over the bus and the

world turned over and over to the accompaniment of shattering glass and the

high-pitched squeal of stressed steel. There was a second of stomach-churning

motion, and then they were weightless in a freefall that ended with a tremendous

roaring splash. Burning fumes assailed them as an eye-searing liquid began

pouring through the open roof and broken windows. Those who were still capable

of doing so swam desperately for the exits.

Hillary watched the tiny bus bobbing in her martini for a few seconds until it

began to sink, noting the dust-like motes that drifted on the surface,

struggling to remain afloat. Then she lifted her glass in a toast to the people

who watched her with horror from the surface of her desk -- and drank down her

martini in a single gulp. Hillary smacked her lips noisily. "Ahhh."

The little captives were too terrified to move. They could scarcely believe what

they had just seen. The entire situation seemed unreal, many of them believing

that at any second they would wake up in their bed.

"You loyal Americans are going to see something very special on this tour,

something no one in the history of American has ever seen," said Hillary with a

sly, saucy smile. She lifted her feet from the floor as she sat in the chair,

and rested them against the edge of the desk, spreading her knees and lifting

her skirt to reveal her hot, dripping cleft to everyone before her. "Now there

is something you don't see every day," she said with a leer. "The cunt of the

President of the United States. And look how happy it is to see you."

The prisoners cowered back, some of the women bursting into tears of fear and

outrage. The lips of Hillary's bare, shaved cunt gaped at them wetly, drooling

little streamers of liquid lust. It was as tall as any of them, like a cave

mouth, and the fumes and heat of her arousal drifted from it.

Hillary rubbed the index finger of her right hand in a circular motion against

her thumb as she looked over the group of her little toys. Finally coming to a

decision, she reached into their midst, causing them to scatter in all

directions. Like a predatory raptor, her hand came down on top of the form of

the tour guide, snatching her up in her fingers. "I wouldn't run too far," said

Hillary, watching the wriggling little body in her fingers with idle interest.

"It's a long way to the floor for such tiny citizens."

Those who had run as far as the edge of the desk stopped, staring down with

despair at the distance that seemed to them to stretch sixty feet to the carpet,

far below. Nothing on the desk -- calendar, pens, spindle, tensor lamp --

offered even the illusion of a hiding place.

The tour guide cried and struggled helplessly against the immense strength of

the fingers that held her. When Hillary raised the little woman to her face it

was like being scrutinized by God, so immense were the eyes.

"You," said Hillary, nodding, "are just too cute. I love the little uniform but,

um, let's lose it shall we?"

Without difficulty, Hillary tore the clothes from her struggling captive as if

they were tissue paper. "No, no, no," said the tour guide over and over, kicking

her legs and slapping ineffectually at Hillary's vast fingers.

"Bet you didn't know the president likes to fuck women," said Hillary, grinning.

"I'm not choosy. Men, women... and something in between on one memorable

occasion. Come say hello to the vice-president. Or, rather, the president's


Hillary lowered the woman between her legs and began rubbing her gently against

her parted cunt lips, her breath catching as the guide continued to kick and

slap, but now at the wet folds that slid against her flesh.

"Help me!" screamed the little woman, her eyes wide and bulging as she stared

into the cavernous black depths before her, the air redolent with the humid musk

of sex.

"Help you?" said Hillary, smiling. "Of course I will. Here you go." Pushing

gently but relentlessly with her thumb, she drove the guide inside her until

only the wildly flailing feet could be seen poking from the quivering folds.

Hillary narrowed her eyes and flexed her vaginal muscles, her teeth gritting

together. The guide's legs popped out nearly to the thighs and then, with a wet

slurping noise audible to those staring aghast on the desk, her whole body was

sucked inside.

"Oh yes, very nice," said Hillary. Her iron control remained unfazed by the

writhing, tickling form inside her. "As all of you tiny, loyal American citizens

are aware -- any of you registered Democrats? -- I have always believed in

gender fairness. I think a man now, yes?"

The crowd backed away as far as they could go, but Hillary had no difficulty

snatching one of the little bodies up in her fist, closing her eyes and

savouring the man's pitiful struggles in her fingers. When she opened her hand,

she saw that she had grabbed the driver, as she had thought she had. "Oh man, oh

man, oh man, oh man," repeated the driver in a mantra, kneeling in abject

submission in the palm of Hillary's hand, his hands covering his face. "Please,

Mrs. President, ma'am, I got a wife and kids. This can't be happening."

"Don't you ever fool around?" said Hillary, using the a fingernail on her other

hand to tear open the front of his shirt. "Bill fucked everything on two legs

with tits. It's the American way. Let's see what you got down there." In

seconds, she had his clothes stripped completely away. Too terrified to move

after seeing what had happened to his co-worker, the driver offered no


Hillary lifted the driver by his hips up to her face, squinting at the man's

tiny genitals. "A little hard to tell," said Hillary. "Let me see if I can fix

that. Not too many people ever get a blowjob from an American president, little

man. Enjoy it while you can."

With the tip of her tongue, Hillary began massaging the man's groin, spreading

wet warmth from his navel to his thighs. Despite his fear and his best efforts

to resist, he began to react to the physical stimulation in the usual way. Hot

humiliation burned on his cheeks as he imagined the passengers watching all of

this. Hillary's face was all he could see, and he was all too aware of the

vastness of her hot mouth into which his bus had passed only minutes earlier,

carrying with it a screaming and unwilling cargo of living people.

"I think that's enough," said Hillary, ceasing her oral explorations. "Time to

put that thing to some use, little man."

The driver's eyes opened wide in sudden fear. "Aw, please, don't. Please! I

voted for you!"

"Well then, think of this as my thanks," said Hillary, as she stuffed him

head-first into her gaping cunt, which gobbled him up like a starving monster.

"Besides, it could be worse, don't you think? I could have been Tipper."

Hillary dropped her feet to the floor and brought her legs together, trapping

her two little occupants inside her. She knew from past experience that they

would be good for at least five minutes, and could be salvaged as long as twenty

minutes later as long as she didn't damage them too badly by bearing down. She

often made a game of it, teasing herself by refusing to bear down, exercising

her sheer willpower.

"Now that I am suitably entertained, we'll see to the rest of you," said

Hillary, showing lots of teeth in a feral grin. The passangers shuffled

nervously. "Remove all of your clothes."

A few people hesitantly removed shirts, looking at each other for guidance.

The smile vanished from Hillary's face. "Kennedy was right. I see you need a

demonstration of power. Eenie, meenie, minie, " she said, passing her hand back

and forth over the top of the desk, watching the tiny people run from it in

terror. "And... moe."

Hillary selected a beefy man with a large barrel chest. He shouted and raged in Free Games for Mac, Free Games for ipad and Free Games for Iphone, without in app purchases or something like that Free Browser Games

her fingers, infuriated at his unaccustomed helplessness, but could not break

free of them. She had him quickly naked, and smiled with approval at what she

saw. "Nice butt," she said, giving it a painful pinch that instantly purpled it

with an immense bruise. Her eyes ranged across the surface of the desk, looking

for something she could use. The little man grew pale when he saw her eyes

alight on the spindle.

"Oh no," said the man, shaking his head, "you can't possibly..."

"Oh but I can," said Hillary. "That's the whole point. Everyone watching? Good.

Now, let me show you what I can do." And with that, she spread the man's legs

and placed the sharp tip of the upthrust spindle against the tiny pucker of his


"Nooooo!" he screamed, thrashing with desperate abandon.

Hillary pressed down and the spike forced its way up his rectum, the point

tearing through the top of his bowel and threading through the packed mass of

intestines and internal organs. He screamed in a high, almost womanish pitch

until the point, passing within a hair's bredth of his heart, punctured his

chest just above the breastbone and passed up past his chin and disbelieving


The little man, still flailing, slid down the long steel spindle which was now

greased with his own blood until his feet touched the base. He was clearly still

very much alive, and he sobbed brokenly, trying without success to pull himself

back up the spindle that impaled him. Those who stood on the desk were utterly


"Mmmm," said Hillary, clearly enjoying the spectacle, pulling the spindle toward

her so she could watch her victim crying. "You know, Vlad Teppes the Impaler, of

Dracula fame, had thousands of his enemies impaled on poles up and down the

sides of his roads. Scared the shit out of the Turks. It's too bad I can't do

this to Congress." Her eyes turned with an almost audible click to the silent

throng on the table. "Still plenty of room on the spindle. Now get your fucking

clothes off."

The passengers shucked their clothes quickly and quietly, their eyes still

locked on the man who groaned and sobbed on the spindle. This was no longer a

game or a dream, but terribly real.

"Fair's fair," said Hillary, and began removing her blouse. She let it fall in a

crumple of silk to the floor. Her breasts, a pale white, strained against the

black lace bra that enclosed it. She took a deep breath, allowing the soft flesh

to swell over the top of the material, then released it. "Not bad for a

middle-aged mother, hmmm?" she said, reaching in front to unclasp the bra. It

fell away to join the shirt, leaving her bare-chested. Her aureoles were a

delicate pink, with large nipples several shades darker. The breasts loomed out

over the desk like a pair of immense zeppelins.

One of the men seemed mesmerized by the breasts. His breath came in quick gasps,

and his arousal was painfully obvious. Taking a few hesitant steps forward, he

reached up for the huge, swelling flesh above him.

"A tit man," said Hillary, with a vicious grin. "Bill was a leg man, himself. Go

ahead, Tom Thumb, touch them. They don't bite." She lowered her breasts so that

they hovered just an inch over the desk, watching with amusement as the tiny man

placed his hands against them reverently, as if they were holy. She twitched

slightly to the side, battering him aside with her nipple and sending him

cartwheeling. It was a few seconds before he could stand again, looking up at

Hillary's cruel face above him.

"What's the matter?" said Hillary with an cold laugh. "A little more than you're

used to, little guy? Come on, not going to let that stop you, are you?"

The man looked around nervously and licked his lips. He realized that he didn't

have much choice. Carefully, ready to jump aside, he placed his hand on the

colossal nipple that was fully half as tall as he was, exulting even in his

terror that he was fondling the tit of the goddam President of the United States

of America! Even if she was a little bigger than she looked on television.

Suddenly Hillary surged forward and a wall of tit flesh fell on top of him like

the world's largest marshmallow.

Hillary felt the man squirming under the weight of her breast, trying without

hope of success to push the smothering flesh away. Slowly she let more of its

weight settle on him, feeling his struggles diminish. For just a second, she

lifted the weight away, allowing him to draw a single breath, and then let the

whole weight of her breast fall on him. "Too much woman?" said Hillary sweetly.

She lifted her breast with her hands, then let it slam down on the desk with

enough force to pulverize him. She could actually feel his bones break against

the sensitive flesh under her breast. When she drew her breast away, the desk

was tacky with blood and the little man's broken body was adhered wetly to her

skin in a patch of crimson. "Oh yes," she laughed, "much too much woman."

The squirming up inside Hillary had stopped, so she spread her legs and probed

inside with her fingers, shivering at the feeling it gave her. Shortly her

fingers emerged holding two naked bodies, both glistening with her juices and

barely moving.

"Have good time?" said Hillary. She laughed. "You wouldn't be the first to get

fucked by the American government." As the two little people in her hand panted,

gasping for breath, she contemplated them with an expression of idle curiosity.

"I've never had enough at once to experiment with. What do you think the

difference is between men and women." Her gaze sharpened. "Taste, I mean."

The tour guide looked up with sudden fear, pushing her slime-soaked hair out of

her face. "Taste?" she squeaked.

"Mmm-hmm," said Hillary, nodding in agreement with a wide, terrifying smile that

showed far too many very white teeth. "There doesn't seem to be any end to my

perversities, does there?" She licked her upper lip with exaggerated slowness.

The driver could only stare with horror, frozen, but the guide drew herself to

her knees and began sobbing hysterically. "Please don't eat me. I'll do

anything, anything you say. Oh my God, I can't believe this!"

"Anything?" said Hillary, her eyes twinkling.

"Anything! Anything!" screamed the woman with desperate, wild hope.

"Okay," said Hillary, slyly. "I want you to say: My, what big teeth you have,


The guide began shivering uncontrollably. "No, no, I..."

Hillary licked her lips again. "Say it."

"M-- My, wh-- wh-- what," began the guide, crying, unable to get the words out,

unable to look away from the huge teeth shining whitely at her.

"Say it," hissed Hillary, the icy chill in her voice terrifying the woman beyond

the capacity for reason.

"M-m-m-my, what b-big t-t-t-teeth," said the guide, hiding her face in her

hands, talking between her tears and unable to finish.

"All the better," said Hillary, grinning, taking her time. "All the better... to

eat you with."

Hillary seized the screaming guide between her fingers and pushed her feet-first

through her lips, over those terrible white teeth and onto her tongue. The

screams stopped abruptly as Hillary closed her lips and began to chew.

Horrible, wet crunching noises could be heard by every person on the table, as

if Hillary was chewing on a particularly tough piece of meat. Only the driver,

close to Hillary's lips, heard the tiny sobs and gasps of pain that went on for

a long, long time as Hillary chewed and then swallowed.

"Delicious," said Hillary, smacking her lips. "An acquired taste, but one which

I have taken the trouble to acquire. A hard flavour to describe, really. Sort of

sweet and meaty, like steak tartar, but also salty with a bitter tang, like beef

liver, only not as strong. More like frog's legs. The texture is very much like

eating smelts or sardines. All those little bones, you see."

Except for the more or less constant groans of pain from the man impaled on the

spindle, the entire table was silent.

"And now," said Hillary, "it's time for the taste test."

The driver began trembling violently as Hillary's eyes rolled down to look at

him. "Oh no, lady. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh sh--" His voice became a yelp as Hillary

yanked him airborne by one foot. When the world stopped spinning, he was staring

straight down into Hillary's open mouth. He screamed.

Hillary had to control her laughter as she looked up t the little man's face

acquire a look of comical panic as she held him above her tilted head.

Playfully, she gnashed her teeth at him, missing his arms by fractions of an

inch as he tried to hold her lips shut. Slowly, very slowly, she lowered him

until she could bat his head with her tongue, then closed her lips around his

chest. Using just her lips and teeth in tandem with gravity, she let him slide

inside her mouth. When just the bottom of his feet could be seen ouside her

lips, she turned to the people on the desk and grinned.

Inside her mouth, the driver was drenched with Hillary's freely running saliva,

crying quietly as he watched the massive teeth all around him. He could not help

but notice the bloodstains and the nauseating bits of bone and torn flesh. He

could just barely make out the scent of the perfume the tour guide had worn.

Hillary sucked the feet in with a slurp and began chewing. The driver did not

die quickly or quietly. His screams were clearly audible to everyone and ended

only when Hillary swallowed.

"Hmmm," said Hillary, smacking her lips as if tasting a particularly fine old

wine. "I must say he tasted very much like she did. A trifle tougher to chew,

perhaps? Of course, he was larger than she was too. I must conclude that men and

women taste very much alike. A blow for equality, do you think?" Hillary


Few on the table had remained unmoved by the spectacle. Some were huddled by

themselves, arms wrapped around their knees as if to make themselves a smaller

target. Others wandered hopelessly as if in a dream. The rest held each other

and cried.

"Ah, but time is wasting," said Hillary. "I planned to make this a celebration,

and so I shall. I have never had so many lovely treats all in one place, and I

believe I shall satisfy myself. Plenty of time for dieting tomorrow."

The buffet supper began. Reaching indiscriminately into the crowd on her desk,

Hillary popped both men and women into her mouth, chewing some and swallowing

others whole, to die horribly amongst the crushed and mangled body parts of

those who had been previously devoured. In her rapidly-filling stomach, a grisly

rain of blood and dead bodies fell on the heads of those who still lived. All of

the little canapes on her desk screamed and ran in every direction, but nowhere

was safe. Hillary made snorts and grunts of satisfaction as she fed a stream of

naked pink bodies into her voracious mouth, often two or three at a time,

occasionally having to pick little severed arms and legs from the desk and cram

them back in. Only sixty remained by the time Hillary sat back in her chair and

heaved an enormous sigh, followed by a discrete belch.

"Ahhh," said Hillary, leaning back with one hand on her distended stomach as she

enjoyed the diminishing struggles of those dying inside her. "I am completely

stuffed. I couldn't eat another bite. Well, okay, maybe just one."

Hillary snatched up a tiny man who had passed too close and, with a single

guillotine-like slash of her teeth, bit off his legs. The man screamed as twin

jets of hot blood shot out of the remaining stumps to dribble down Hillary's

chin. Chewing thoughtfully on his legs, she regarded the crippled little man

with sadistic curiosity. Two more bites and both arms followed the legs.

Incredibly, the man was still alive, though blood loss had turned him a sickly

shade of grey. "How interesting," said Hillary, in much the same polite voice

she used for state dinners. Using her fingernails, she pinched off the man's

genitals and ate those as well. The man, now little more than a sexless head and

torso, finally slumped motionless in her fingers, either dead or unconscious.

Hillary shrugged and popped him into her mouth, chewing slowly.

Checking her slim gold watch, Hillary frowned. This was taking too long. Any

minute the chime would ring and she would have to go and address the nation.

There were still nearly sixty of the little toys left, even after all of her

depredations. She could reduce them to the size of ants and simply crush them

into paste with her thumb, but it seemed a terrible waste of such good material.

Her cunt twitched as she stared at all the hard-bodied men, their chests

powerful, their buttocks slim and masculine; and twitched again as she stared at

all the coltish feminine legs, gorgeous little tits, and hot, sweet little

cunnies. No, she had to take them with her... for later.

An idea, a dangerous, insane idea began to form in Hillary's mind, the sort of

idea that made her hot and wet. Glancing again at her watch, she began grabbing

her tiny desktop prisoners by the handful and stuffing them into her cunt.

Gasping, she could feel herself being filled right to the cervix. Hillary

realized that no more than half could be crammed inside her cunt if she expected

to hold them in by the sheer power of her vaginal muscles alone. She blinked,

trying to clear her mind of the unbelievably powerful arousal she was feeling

with all those people inside her. Where else could she...

A cruel grin made those who remained shiver with terror.

Hillary placed her feet on the edge of the table again and spread her knees.

After placing one hand over her cunt to keep her captives inside, Hillary

allowed her muscles to go slack. She wondered if it was even possible... but she

was determined to find out. She picked up a tiny red-haired woman and, using the

back of her thumb, pressed the woman's face into the puckered hole of her anus.

The woman, in mortal terror and nauseated by the stench that came from the

tight, sweltering hole in front of her, fought for all she was worth. She might

as well have been battling the ocean with a sand bucket. With unrelenting

pressure, Hillary forced the woman's upper half into her anus, shuddering with

the pleasure this gave her. Forcing herself to fully relax, she quickly stuffed

the rest of the hysterical woman in until only her feet could be seen. A second

later, another little person, a horror-stricken man, joined her. With greater

speed, Hillary began forcing her remaining prisoners up into her rectum, gasping

as she felt them squirming inside her.

No matter how hard she pushed, Hillary could not take all of them inside her.

There remained a handful left on the table, and with fifty tiny people squirming

inside her causing whole strings of tiny, shuddering orgasms, she didn't think

she could even muster the will to operate the alien cube. The doorbell chimed.

Hillary ran a hand through her hair with something close to panic. If she didn't

come to the door within a few minutes, they would break in. If only she wasn't

so full, she thought...

Out of other ideas, Hillary removed her pumps and stuffed those left on the

table inside them, ripping the impaled man off the spindle. They screamed and

scrambled to escape, but she quickly and cruelly forced her feet in, feeling

bones breaking and flesh flattening under her soles. Hot, wet flesh squelched up

between her toes and soaked her insoles with blood. She had had the shoes

waterproofed, and she knew that no blood would leak out, but with irritation she

realized that they would be ruined. Movement in the pointed tips told her that

at least a couple of them had survived her feet, though they couldn't be too

comfortable pressed into the tiny open area by the tips of her bunched toes, not

to mention being surrounded by blood and crushed flesh. The chime rang again.

Nearly running now, Hillary bounded up into the bathroom, her feet squishing

wetly in her shoes' bloody contents. It took all of her willpower to keep her

cunt and her anus clenched tight as she splashed water over her face and bare

breats, washing the blood off her. She nearly kicked herself when she saw the

toilet, realizing that she could have flushed her troubles away and saved her

beautiful Givenchy pumps. The doorbell rang again, and Hillary knew this would

be the last time. They would already have called in a yellow alert and be

preparing to kick in the door.

Hillary looked at her bra. No time. She kicked it under the desk, hoping the

Secret Service agent that swept the room for bugs would keep his mouth shut when

he saw it. Quickly, she drew her silk blouse on and sprinted to the door,

throwing it open to see a half dozen agents with drawn guns waiting outside. She

smiled reassuringly.

"I'm sorry," said Hillary. "I got... wrapped up in what I was doing. Is it


The senior agent blinked at her. That was the total sum of his emotional

response, but Hillary knew that among the Secret Service that was virtually a

screaming temper tantrum. "That's affirmative, Madame President," he said, his

jaw tightly clenched. "Cancel code jaundice. Code green," he said into his

throat pick-up, sub- vocalizing. "Repeat, code green. Lawgiver in transit."

All the agents holstered their guns. They had somehow survived the Reagan years,

and knew they would survive this C-in-C too. Some of the older agents, though,

whispered horror stories late at night about those terrible Forgetful Ford


The agents escorted Hillary from the vault to the Oval Office, where she would

be giving her inaugural address. Sweat rolled down her face as the tiny people

wriggling and squirming inside her brought orgasm after thundering orgasm

exploding out of her groin and vibrating out to her extremities until she felt

like an overstrung violin. Her cheeks were bright pink, but otherwise she

controlled her reactions with steel resolve.

"Is something wrong, Madame President?" said the senior agent, alert to the

slightest signs of presidential distress. He watched her closely.

"No, noth--" began Hillary and stopped. Her voice had come out high and squeaky.

She cleared her throat. "No, nothing," she said in a more normal tone. "Just

nerves, I guess." Hillary wondered what would happen if she lost control of her

muscles and fifty tiny, half- asphyxiated people came pouring out from under her

skirt. She didn't want to know.

The agent nodded. A case of nerves were understandable. The president's address

would be watched live by hundreds of millions of people around the world.

Hillary sat down in the chair that had once been her husband's and looked up at

the cameras. A staff make-up man bustled up to her and frowned, seeing the sweat

rolling down her face. Shades of Nixon, he thought, tsking. He wiped her face

clear and applied a thick layer of foundation, then spent another ten minutes

expertly applying make-up to bring out Hillary's best features. He noticed the

president was trembling and patted her shoulder encouragingly. It made her seem

more human somehow, he thought, that she was so nervous.

"One minute, Madame President."

Hillary stared into the camera, her mind blank of everything except the

terrible, unthinkable pleasure that was tearing her apart like cheap tissue

paper. She wanted to tear off her blouse and rub the nipples that ached with the

feathery-light touch of the silk against them. She wanted to tear off her skirt

and frig herself with wild abandon on the desk, in full sight of every person in

America. Some tiny person, man or woman, was pushing over and over against

Hillary's G-spot until she could taste the throat-searing scream of total,

insane, absolute, sybaritic esctasy that was clawing its way out of the depths

of her diaphragm.

"Ten seconds, Madame President."

No, she couldn't do it. She would go mad. Right there in front of the world, she

would lose her mind, and she would not care, so great were the sensations

rocketing through her shuddering body.

"...three, two, one, aaaaand... we're on."

For a single, earthshattering moment of terror, Hillary could not think of a

single thing to say. She stared dumbly at the camera. The White House director

was gesturing desperately at the telePrompter.

With sheer determination that could have staggered mountains and thrown wide the

gates of Hell itself, Hillary forced her lips into a warm smile.

"My fellow Americans..."

The speech went as planned, with two exceptions. Halfway through Hillary's

speech, her nipples, unrestrained by a bra, swelled up like steely rifle shells

and pressed against the thin material of her silk blouse. The director quickly

ordered the camera to pan in, focussing on the president's face. But millions of

observant Americans smirked in amusement, realizing why the close-up had been

needed. And then, near the end of it, Hillary left her prepared speech.

"We have a long... hard... time before us," said Hillary, her eyes going glassy.

She spoke in a throaty whisper, dabbing at her lips with her tongue. "We will

ssssweat... and grrroan... with the need to... satisfy the needs of this

gorgeous nation, united together, indivisible." Hillary shivered, brushing her

hair back with her fingers as she gazed with smoldering heat into the camera.

"And can we do it? Come on, can we do it? Come on! Come on! Yes! Yessss! YESSSS!

Oh my God, YESSSSSSS!"

"This has been an address by the President of the United States of America."

"Aaaand, we're off."

And Hillary threw back her head and let loose a soul-chilling orgasmic scream

that brought every Secret Service agent in the building running at a sprint with

their guns drawn.

"Jesus," said the director, gaping at her. "I don't know whether to applaud or

light her a cigarette."


* * *

"You're sure you're okay?" said the senior Secret Service agent, his face

doubtful as he walked a pace behind Hillary. She panted and wobbled as she made

her way to her bedroom.

"Yes, fine," she said, turning to him with frank sexual hunger that made him

look nervously away. "I told you; it was, um, primal scream therapy."

"Yes, Madame President," he said without inflection. "Perhaps next time you

could alert us before your, er, therapy. As such."

Hillary nodded absently and closed the door to her suite in the agent's face.

"G'night," she mumbled to the closed door. She was beyond the capability of

politeness by this point. Much of the squirming inside her had stopped, but her

entire body felt like a live wire, every square inch of her skin turned into a

single gargantuan erogenous zone.

Ten minutes later, Hillary sat naked on the floor, a heap of tiny pink bodies in

front of her. At least half of them had smothered, she thought. It was just as

well that nearly all those she had stuffed up her ass had been smothered,

because the way they smelled, there was no way she was going to play with them.

A few were missing, and she figured she'd pass them the next time she went for a

shit. Her shoes, as she had suspected, were a complete write-off, and the people

crammed against her toes had died there, covered in sweat and gore. What was she

going to do with all those bodies? She could flush them, she supposed, or clean

them up a little and munch on them tonight. But what was she going to do with

all the rest of them? She couldn't risk keeping them around.

A familiar furry shape slid past Hillary's leg.

"Socks!" said Hillary, clasping the cat to her. She snuggled her face into its

fur, loving the softness. "How would you like a tiny little treat?"

Socks mewled as his bright, feline eyes locked on the small forms crawling

enticingly between his mistress' legs.

"Okay, but just one," said Hillary. She lowered Socks to the floor.

With his ears back and his tail swishing, Socks stalked up to one of the little

shapes, a dark-haired and small-breasted woman on a tour from Japan who had been

one of the last inside Hillary's cunt, and so had managed to gasp enough air to

survive. She gave a little chirp of fear and threw up her hands in self-defence,

but Socks pounced on her and seized her in his sharp little teeth. He scurried

away with his prize, the Japanese woman still making shrill little squeaks of


Hillary smiled fondly as she watched Socks vanish under the bed. She would have

to make sure, later, that he had eaten her, and flush the little body if he

hadn't. That was one gone. But what to do about the rest...?

Hillary grinned and picked up the house phone. "Hi, Chelsea, it's mom. I have

a... little something for you. Yes, see you in a bit."


* * *

The next day Hillary would discover that her speech had caused a twelve-point

increase in her personal popularity.

Giantess Stories: Executive Priviledge

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