Giantess Stories: Mike Wallace

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Mike Wallace's Supernatural Bar & Grill 1: Sam's Tale

By The Wordmaster

I entered the darkened, smoke-filled room and peered about with narrowed eyes.

The cacaphony of voices shouting to be heard above the blaring music and

breaking chairs was deafening. In one booth, a group of red, horned devils was

laughing uproariously. Their neighbors, werewolves, unless I miss my guess, were

deeply involved in an arm-wrestling competition. Their hoots and hollers as they

placed bets disturbed another booth, this one full of vampires, who rose to

politely ask the lycanthropes to quiet down. The werewolves politely asked the

vampires to fuck themselves. Blows were exchanged, but the fight was cut short

when a peacemaker ordered both groups a round of drinks. Within minutes, they

were the best of friends. Some might call this quite an odd incident. Me, I like

to call it an average night at Mike Wallace's Supernatural Bar & Grill.

Yes sir, the old SB&G, located right between Nirvana and Purgatory, is the

watering hole for every immortal, every magical creature, every wish-granting,

curse-placing, all-knowing being in the universe. I walked up to the bar and

greeted the lanky, awkward adolescent bartender.

"Hey, Mike. How's it hangin'?"

Some folks may wonder what a 17 year old kid is doing slinging booze. Well, the

truth is, old Mike's 473 (474 next Tuesday). He got in the way of a passing

mummy and got cursed with eternal youth. It's best not to talk about it.

"Not bad, Lucky. Yourself?"

That's me, Lucky the Leprechaun. Short, green, and Irish. Ask me for a bowl of

Lucky Charms and I'll knock your teeth down your throat.

"Can't complain. I'll have the usual."

As Mike poured me a Scotch on the rocks, a tremendous explosion rocked the room.

Smoke began billowing from a crater in the floor, condensing into a massive

turban wearing man. "FOOLS!" he thundered, "PREPARE YOURSELVES, FOR YOUR DOOM

HAS ARRIVED!" The tenants burst into applause at this most dramatic entrance.

Calmly, Mike wiped out a glass and poured a beer. Sending it down the bar

towards the newcomer, he said: "Hey, Sam. You've got five seconds to fix my

floor before I throw you out. Permanently."

At this most dire threat, Sam waved his hand and the hole disappeared. Dropping

the traditional Genie guise, he slipped into a comfortable Chicago accent. "'Sup

Mike? Lucky?"

"Sam!" I exclaimed, "I haven't seen you in a couple of centuries!"

"Yeah, that's the life of a genie. Spend a couple hundred years in a lamp, get

let out, grant a few wishes, have a night on the town, then it's back to the


"Well, it's always a pleasure when you do show up. Look around you, bro. These

people love you."

Sam shot a grin around the room. Everyone smiled and waved back. "Yeah, but

sometimes I wonder who they love more. Me, or my stories."

"The stories!" came a shout from someone. General laughter all around. But it's

true. Sam's one helluva storyteller. And we all knew that when he showed up, we

were in for a treat.

Sam drained his glass and began. "Well, it all started a few days ago..."


"This lamp goes perfectly with this decor," marvelled Jenny Boothe, formerly

Byrd. After coming out of a bad divorce, the thirtysomething blonde bombshell

found that shopping was the best way to get her mind off her ex-husband, George

Byrd. "God bless those folks at Ikea." Leaning closer to the light fixture, she

noticed a smudge. She licked her finger and rubbed it off the polished brass.

The lamp began to shake, and a hissing sound came as smoke poured from it. Jenny

stepped back, openmouthed, as the smoke formed into a huge, seven foot tall

genie! "Wh.. who are you?" She kicked herself for sounding so dumb, but what the

hell else was there to say?

I gave her the old spiel: "I am the genie of the lamp. You have freed me, and

now are entitled to three wishes." You'd think that goes without saying, but if

the big boys find out you didn't say it, it's your ass on a platter.

"Three wishes, huh? I'll need some time to think." Of course, what with my

powers and all, I could read her thoughts. She was pondering the benefits of

show biz. Seems most folks do. It's a nice dream, bein' famous and all. I was

just waitin' for her to mess it up by phrasin' it wrong. Boy, did she ever.

"I wish I was big!"

Now, I don't know if it's a rule or anything, but it seems the job of a genie is

to take what they want and twist it, so they don't want it no more. With a

loosely worded request like that, I went to town.

"Your wish is my command!" Then presto-chango! she's mile high Jenny! Well,

figuraritively speaking, that is. In actuality, she was exactly 771.6 feet tall.

I had altered her previously 5' 4.3" frame in such a way so as to make your

average six foot tall Chicago citizen appear to her to be one half inch tall. I

like to keep the numbers nice and easy to work with. Anyways, she busts her way

outta her apartment complex, all dazed and confused. Well, after she stomps a

couple of cars and makes one helluva mess, she realizes what's goin' on.

Now, I was expecting her to be upset with my interpretation of her desire. Quite

the opposite occured, my good friends. This chick went nuts. She loved it! I

ballooned up to a reasonable size and perched myself on her shoulder, where I

got a good view of her... how should I put this? .... crunch-fest.

At first, it was just stomping. A parked car here, a pedestrian there. Each

little "crunch" made her giggle. As the crowds grew to gawk at this gigantic

naked bimbo (she had not specified that her clothes be big too) things got a bit

messier. She turned to face the mob, which apparently did not realize the danger

they were in. "HELLO, LITTLE BUGS," she said, smiling the whole time. Jenny

lifted her gigantic foot over them, and they finally got the message. As one, a

few hundred people turned, pushing and shoving to escape the hovering foot. Very

few did. One person makes a little crunch and a tiny mess. One dozen make a big

crunch and a bigger mess. One hundred make a noise like "goosh" and form this

sticky, jelly glop that kinda holds the foot to the ground for a bit before you

can pick it up again.

Jenny had fun making barricades out of the rubble left behind from the buildings

she toppled. She herded a few thousand assorted civilians into the Daley Plaza,

then trapped them there. The first thing she did was to separate the women from

the men. The ladies she let go. The fellas weren't so lucky. She used 'em a few

dozen at a time for assorted tasks. Massaging her back, tickling her feet,

spanking her (no kidding! This was one kinky chick!), sucking her tits. After

each group was done, she'd crush 'em. Not a pretty sight. Her beautiful face

curled up in this nasty sneer when she offed a man. You could tell she had a

beef with the male population. I did a background check (translation: I went

into her head and read her thoughts again) and found out it was cuz her husband

had an affair with some gal. Now she was takin' out her anger on a bunch of

innocent bystanders. Scary, in a way.

Anyways, once she was down to about ten men, she got down to business. She

opened up her pussy and just shoveled 'em in. They were none to pleased. She, on

the other hand, had a ball. Thrashing and yelling, she had one good fuck. I felt

nauseous, to be honest.

Well, finally, somebody called in the national guard or the army or somebody,

cuz a bunch of tanks and planes showed up. She turned to me for a way out.


We were hanging on Sam's every word, and he knew it. He just broke his story off

right in the middle. Everybody was staring, listening, even the juke box

stopped. Finally somebody piped up: "C'mon, Sam. Don't leave us hanging. Finish

your story."

"Well, hey, I'd like to, but I'm a bit parched. Thirsty work, tellin' stories."

Everybody picked up his hint and Sam in turn picked up more than a few free

drinks. Somewhat more slurred than before, he resumed his story.


Like I said, she turned to me. I figgered she'd wish to be small again so she

could get outta there, but no. This broad was smart. She wished to have the

power to control her size and the size of anybody else. Nothin' more dangerous

than a good-lookin' AND intelligent girl.

Well, I did what I had to and granted her wish. Frankly, I was captivated. My

last couple masters weren't nearly as interesting as this one. They were all

"make me rich, make me powerful, this rich and powerful stuff is overrated, take

it back." This lady was playin' me for all I was worth. Once she had her new

skill, she grew to nearly three miles high, swatted them planes outta the sky,

and took off for a new town. We ended up in central Illinois, after leaving

quite a path of destruction. She shrank herself down, shrank some other broad

and stole her clothes, and holed up in a motel, hoping nobody'd recognize her.

Her plan didn't work out. A pair of bellboys figured out who she was, but before

they could squeal, she shrank them down to a few inches and took 'em to her room

for some late nite entertainment.

She did all kinds of crazy stuff. Nursin' them like they was infants, seein' how

tiny she could get 'em before she couldn't see 'em anymore, stuffin' them in

every hole her body had. They had one rough time, I tell ya. I felt real bad,

cuz they hadn't done nuthin' wrong. She was pissed at her ex-husband, not them.

You could tell, cuz she kept callin' them George and tellin' them they shouldn't

have run off with that floozy. Well, when she had one of 'em down to only an

inch tall workin' her clit and the other at a foot eatin' her out, I couldn't

take it no more. I offered her a fair exchange. I'd bring her ex-hubby Mr. Byrd

to her if she'd let the two pussy slaves go. She agreed, and that was her third

and final wish.

George Byrd was a helluva chore to find. He had taken his new wife to Bermuda

and was livin' it up on the beach. Man, was he surprised when I whisked him away

to his ex-wife's tender embrace. She shrunk him down to six inches and was just

squeezing him when I left. True to her word, she let the two bellboys go, and I

figure all's well that ends well.


Sam tossed back his final beer and made it clear that his story was done. The

bar was abuzz with comments, but something was troubling me. I flagged Sam down

as he was heading out the door and asked him:

"Hey, Sam, you gave that chick one guy but she lost two. How do you figure that

to be 'a fair exchange'?"

The bar quieted to hear Sam's response. He just leaned down next to me and said:

"C'mon, Lucky. Haven't you ever heard? A Byrd in the hand is worth two in the


He bowed to the laughter and applause and left.

The End

Giantess Stories: Mike Wallace

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