Giantess Stories: This really ain

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This really ain't 100% GTS in content, in reality, it is more about

the awakening of these fantasies , then about the fantasies

themselves. There is enough GTS "type" content for me to

risk posting this to the web.....

In the immortal words of Strother Martin, the warden in Cool Hand

Luke,"what we got here is . . ."

The Making of a GTS Fan

When one looks back at their life, it is usually possible to see

many, if not all of those noteworthy little events, that have guided

us to our present locations along life's little alleyway. There are

many moments, both fondly remembered, and in some cases, bitterly

cursed, that have made us what we are in the present day. I'm

optimistic that this applies to nearly all of us, including those

within this community that have chosen to read my inadequate words.

This thing of ours, you know, the basic bent that supports

all of our thoughts and desires dealing with this subject, has but

one single tiny seed as its origin. The same way, in which the

headwaters of a mile wide river start, with but a single drop of

water, so does begin the “idea stream” of this varied community.

Many of us here, when asked or polled about our feelings, and more

specifically, when or how long have we had them, answer with a very

similar line; “for as long as I can remember”, or something like

that. It just proves the old adage, that there is nothing new under

the sun; since this seems to be much more common than any of us ever

dared dream was reality. I am no exception to this either, my own

visions amble off through the clouded chasm of my own fading

memories, to a time long before I could indeed read printed word, or

even clearly express myself, for that matter. This “dream” lay

undeveloped and hidden for countless years, until that fateful day, !

when providence reared her ugly head, and treated me to a vision so

incredible, that mere words will not convey those thoughts and images

adequately. This all occurred years after my divorce, when I was

indeed a blissfully happy bachelor again, living alone and following

my many hobbies.

“There I was”, digging a ditch to reach a pipe that had

needed repairing for quite sometime. I had put this off long enough,

and the job could wait no longer. The pipe was buried about two feet

down, because at one point, this portion of the lot had been

backfilled to ease some drainage problems; naturally this made for a

big pile of soil. Of course, like all good holes will do, the

neighbor's son was soon “overseeing” my progress. He surprised me

when he asked my permission to play with his new army men on my dirt

pile, so once asking that he stay on the side away from where I was

working, I gave my permission. Several hours passed, and soon I saw

his mom heading our way, she walked right up to me and wanted to know

if her son was bothering me. I informed that me that he was actually

quite good company and extremely well behaved, and that I did not

mind him playing nearby. At this time she told him to go and get

cleaned up for lunch, which he promptly did.

Once he was out of ear shot, his mom began chatting with me

about my project, and other bits of local gossip. Even I, who was

never really a sophisticated person, could tell that this housewife

was indeed not enjoying her distinctly suburban existence. It seemed

that her husband had left her for a younger woman, and she was

struggling raising her son and three daughters. As she spoke, I gave

her a casual inspection, and concluded that her soon to be

ex-husband, was as big a fool then, as I feel Tony Soprano is now

(Carmella is fine, and she can cook too, mama mia!). My neighbor too

had given herself to make some ungrateful man a family, and was

rejected for it. She too was a beauty in her own right. O.K., she

would never make Playboy, but that to me was an asset, not a

limitation. I prefer the natural beauty of ladies, when they are

themselves rather that what many men twist them into. She was

dressed comfortably for the heat of this late spring day, wearing

shiny bl!

ue spandex leggings and a simple white, cotton peasant girl type top.

She stood about five foot six, in her well worn strapped on house

sandals. She leaned towards the chubby side of the fence, but was in

no way unattractive, she had nicely styled black hair and spoke with

a decidedly thick, yet pleasant, South American accent. Sometime

later I found out that she was from Peru. But enough of this

background information; lets get to what you came here for.

As time went by, I neared the end of my excavation; she

started talking more about her a-hole of a hubby. As she spoke, I saw

her son run off with a few of the neighborhood lads, exploring a

different part of their universe. She asked me if I felt like having

a beer with her while we spoke, and I replied that I needed a break

anyway, and that I'd love to have a beer with her. With that she

turned and trotted off to her house, I was immediately impressed with

the jiggle factor of her ample backside, as she headed for her

kitchen. A few minutes later, she came back with a little red cooler

and some snacks to share. She got out the church-key, and removed

the top from an ice cold bottle of Corona, and handed it to me with a

huge, inviting smile. I thanked her, and took a good long drink.

There is very little in life, as refreshing as an ice cold brewsky,

when you are digging in the yard, and that's a fact.

Within half an hour, the beer was at work on her, and she

began to loosen up a bit, I saw her looking down at the toy soldiers

that her son had forgotten as she spoke to me, and suddenly she

reached down and scooped one up in her pretty hand. She seemed to be

transfixed for an instant just looking at the tiny figurine. Perhaps

it was the fact that I was standing in a hole, looking up at her for

nearly an hour, or perhaps it was the beer, but I soon had an image

of the “Fifty Foot Woman” bouncing around in my head. I watched her

holding that tiny man close to her face, inspecting “him”, and I had

to wonder how that would feel to me, if it were only possible. It

was just at that moment that she noticed me watching her, and she

became very self conscious, and dropped the soldier at her sandaled

feet. I went back to concentrating on my beer, and so did she. We

made a little bit more small talk and then “The Big Event” was set in


A few moments later, her eldest daughter came walking by, and

after greeting me, began speaking to her mother, in Spanish. My

companion turned to face her eighteen year old daughter, and as she

did, I became aware of the “peril” the tiny forgotten soldier was in.

I wondered what his view must have been like, had he only been able

to see. I soon found myself, much like some fish in that river I

mentioned earlier, biting on some morsel in that river, only to find

a hook now firmly set in his jaw. The major difference this time,

was that instead of some fisherman reeling in a prize fish, it was my

mind, and to some extant, my soul, that was trapped in a net that she

had cast, without knowing that she had done so. I began to pretend

that I was that tiny soldier, just inches behind her well worn house

shoes, lying there unable to move or defend myself in any way,

totally helpless.

The two women finished their conversation, and the daughter

continued on her way home. Mom on the other hand, now on her second

bottle of beer, turned back in my direction, and as she did, her left

foot landed right on top of the tiny soldier. She transferred most

of her weight to that foot and shifted position, never even feeling

the small, inch and a half tall man, disappear beneath her well worn

sandal. I imagine that between the beer and the soft yielding earth,

her “killing” had gone unnoticed. She lifted her right foot again,

balancing on her left, and used that foot to scratch the back of her

calf. I watched the tendons within her left foot working to maintain

her balance as she did this. More than once, the heel of her left

shoe came off of the ground, as remaining in balance required this Que es el Papiloma Invertido

adjustment, transferring every ounce of her body onto the tiny little

figure beneath her.

I was now in serious trouble. I had found out something a

little dark and disturbing about myself; viewing this mock crushing

was indeed stimulating, to say the very least. I soon discovered that

even more and stronger images were rapidly forthcoming. Unwittingly,

this surrogate GTS was casting a spell that would ensnare, and to a

point, enslave me forever. I was unable and unwilling to help

myself, and so I let things continue, in fact I gently nudged things

to that next level. She opened another beer for us both, and as she

did she stepped off of the soldier. There you could just make out

his tiny form in her huge foot print, and I pointed this out to her,

telling her that it looked like we had a fatality, and that she had

better call 911. She laughed when she saw what I meant, and planted

her foot back on the tiny form, telling me that “it” was her looser

husband, and that he deserved to be squished like an insect.

Unable to believe what I just heard, I pointed at the other

army men and told her that those were his friends coming to rescue

him, jokingly of course. Without any hesitation, she began stomping

and grinding the entire group of tiny figures beneath the worn soles

of her sandals. Stomping first one then the other, leaving her foot

on one, as she moved her other foot to her next victim, and then

she'd step onto that one, only then lifting her foot from her

previous victims flattened carcass. She continued her destructive

rampage until only one tiny figure remained, and this one she picked

up and dangled before me. She informed me that this one was her

husband's new girl friend, and that she deserved something special.

She walked back through the flattened figurines, not caring if she

stepped on them or not as she went. And then she planted her “last”

victim on top of a fresh dirt pile, and without saying another word,

turned around and sat her big butt down, right on the!

tiny figure. She rocked gently from side to side, until she felt

comfortable, and then hoisted her beer to her mouth, and tilting her

head back, gave me a good view of how well her throat worked as she

swallowed four big gulps, finishing her last beer. She looked right

at me and said that she felt like just one more beer, and noticing

that mine was nearly gone, asked if I wanted another as well,

naturally I agreed to this, and up she got, and back home she went.

Of course, I just had to look, there, in the print of her

massive right butt cheek, was the “girlfriend”, barely visible, but

obvious. I wondered how that would have been too, having a woman so

much bigger than you, mercilessly desire to crush you to death

beneath her ass. I recalled that she had taken her seat, gotten

comfy, and then finished her beer, and remained seated on her

helpless victim for several minutes before leaving. Don't think that

this action didn't carve a deep scar into my crumbling psyche as


It took her awhile to make it back, she made a passing

reference to stopping for the call of nature, and popping the tops

off of both bottles, she again handed me one. Moving back to her

“seat” she looked down and saw the figurine, laughing, she informed

me that it looked like this little “girl friend”, was still alive.

She again turned and sat down where she had been; only missing by a

small amount her exact same position. She was now about two inches

further to her right, guaranteeing that the figurine was now almost

beneath her crack, if not exactly under it. From her seated position,

she leaned over and grabbed the small cooler, and retrieved a zip

lock baggie full some sort of candy. My blood actually ran cold,

when I realized that her snacks of choice were gummi-bears. Ohhhhh .

. . . . the humanity!

Opening the bag, she tilted it towards me, and offered me

some, I refused saying my hands were too dirty, and that they

bothered my teeth. She accepted this and began in munching these;

instantly three were pulled from the bag and dumped right into her

open mouth. I pretended not to watch as she chewed, but out of the

corner of my eye, I caught every detail of her first mouthful of

fresh victims. I watched her jaw work, as she chewed them; saw her

pause, and a moment later saw the chewed lump move down her throat,

to join the contents of her beer filled tummy.

I started a fresh line of chatter, but soon returned to the main

topic, asking her what she would do with all of those shrunken

bodies. She asked me what I meant, and I told her that within a few

hours they would all return to full size, unless destroyed, again,

jokingly of course. We went through several scenarios, all ending up

with us getting caught, until she came up with a grand idea. She said

that the best way to destroy them, would be to eat them, but first

she would turn them into gummi-bears, so that it would taste better.

I told her that this was a perfect solution, on many levels. With a

wave of her mighty hand, all of the victims stopped being toy

soldiers, and had the honor of being promoted to gummi-bears. Some

people have all of the luck, or so it would seem. She busied herself

with the task of ridding the real world of all of her pretend

victims; she threw a few at a time into her waiting jaws, time after

time, repeating these actions until only a couple!

remained in the bag. She washed down the last of what remained in

her mouth, with another swallow or two of beer. This was followed by

a pretty healthy belch, that she attempted to muffle, but was barely

successful in so doing.

Wow, only two left, I mentioned, with a smirk. To this she replied

that she felt full, and needed to rest a bit. A few moments later she

burped quietly again, and informed that now she had some room. I

pointed out how the last two in the bag happened to be her husband

and his new girl friend, and it looked to me like they were still

barely alive. How fitting she thought, and made a comment of how she

should give them some time alone together, before the end came. Not

understanding her meaning, I asked how she meant to accomplish that

little trick. She demonstrated by pulling the couple out of their

plastic prison, and casting them into her mouth, with a rather rapid

movement. She then brought the nearly empty bottle of beer to her

luscious lips, and without another word drained the contents in a

couple more gigantic gulps. This effectively washed the two

remaining gummi's down her throat, whole and intact, or as my mind

ever so slowly began to grasp, alive! That conce!

pt had never occurred to me before that moment. I must have had

quite a strange look on my face, as she looked at me and began to

laugh quietly. Patting her slightly plump belly, she informed me

that they finally had the privacy that she had promised.

I did not know what to say, my mind was so overloaded with sensory

input, that it was suffering its own version of a system crash. I

changed the subject, and for several more minutes we spoke of other

things, and then decided that it was time for her to begin the

preparation of her family's dinner. As she walked off, I though,

what a shame it is, that some real GTS interaction is not really

possible. Then again, imagining the horrors of dying in the stomach

of somebody who ate you just for fun, well, maybe we should leave

well enough alone.

We never spoke of that afternoon's happenings again, even though we

met frequently for a few years after that day. Like most good things

in life however, that relationship ended with more of a whimper than

a bang, as one day she moved two states away, for a better job. The

year she moved away, was the year, that I first saw Kathy Castro's

advertisement in Leg Show. I began to realize that perhaps I was not

alone after all. After reading some of Kathy's work, I realized that

I was fairly tame, in comparison to others out there. I was never

very good at knowing when or where to stop, but from now on; I'm

semi-retired as a writer. I just wanted to tell my story . . . . . .

. while I could still remember it!


Giantess Stories: This really ain

the awakening of these fantasies , then about the fantasies This really ain't 100% GTS in content, in reality, it is more about This really ain't 100% GTS in c



Giantess Stories: This really ain

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