Not much is known about this story (as far as I know). Its author is unidentified. It’s called “Blink” because that’s the first word in the first line. It was uploaded to Casti’s archive in 1997 but could have been written a year or two before that. There are few signature quirks to the story—it’s fairly well written but would benefit from a deep edit and rewrite; at 2,200 words, a slight revision would qualify it for entry in a Size Riot contest. The writing quality is above average, despite the technical errors, and perhaps its pertinent distinguishing feature is that it uses “pussy” only five times but “cunt” 36 times. Other than that, it suffers the same blithe misuse of adverbs that any other story might.
I love this story for a few reasons, but primarily because it’s one of the first Size Erotica stories I’d ever encountered. In 1993 my community college gained internet access, and my first search term was “giantess.” I found communities of giantess fetishists waiting for me, huge galleries of grainy BMP collages, vast repositories of all the stories size writers were composing when FTP was the only way to share them. Several years after this I was working at a temp job that permitted me to stay late, and though it sounds like a disastrous idea now, at the time it wasn’t unreasonable to search stories on the giantess archives to print and bind them. It was a different time, few people were tech-savvy and knew adequate monitoring practices. So I came away with an enormous three-ring binder packed with the earliest works of Grildrig, DX Machina, Sex-Guy, Fecke, Chelgi, Zotster, Littleman, and dozens of stories by unknown writers.
One of these was “Blink.” It’s the first story in my personal print archive, and it’s the most important to me. I had never read any Size Erotica before this anywhere, and suddenly here was a story that reached inside me and exposed my deepest desires: a beautiful, drunken giantess having her way with a tiny man. He was aroused by her, and he was a good sport about exploring a new way to experience and please a woman, but quickly the story reduced to her struggle for an orgasm versus his struggle to survive.
I think, a year before I’d read this, if you’d asked me to list ten things I loved about giantess fetishism, I wouldn’t have had the insight to come up with this trope. I would have described playing with a breast larger than my body, getting sat on and forcibly cuddled by a huge butt, and attempting sexual congress with a pair of lips that could part and swallow me whole. I don’t know if I would’ve had the creative rigor to push myself so far as to describe trying to fend off the advances of a gigantic woman intent on using me for her sexual pleasure. When I read about this in “Blink,” however, it fit within me like a jigsaw puzzle piece. The giantess is laughing and drunk on tequila, displaying herself to the little man, swatting him closer and closer to her vulva while his nascent arousal struggles against his self-preservation. Between the newness of this story to my experience and the rush of abusing work privileges to print out fetish porn, “Blink” enjoyed every possible advantage to make me flop-sweat and get my heart hammering against its cage. Among other things.
The unknown writer is sparing in his description. He doesn’t compare the giantess’s hand to a car or a house or a helicopter; it’s only huge, and we move on. Where I’ll spend many lines describing the quality of a giantess’s labia, how it smells and tastes, how it trembles as the giantess shifts or rubs herself, he only says it’s big and gets straight to work. Nothing is lacking in this technique: we know what the parts of the body look like. Maybe describing the experience in detail didn’t occur to him (I think I safely assume the writer is male, based on the story’s focus and content), but the narration resembles the experienced writer’s “trust the reader” philosophy. He doesn’t spend a lot of effort transporting the reader into the moment of horror when the main character’s foot slips between the giantess’s labia and how struggling to free himself only draws him deeper into her vulva. He simply says what’s happening and the story gallops along and the reader is right there with him, picturing and imagining. It’s an oversight that absolutely works.
The writer is brisk and efficient in his descriptions. One paragraph sets the stage. The next paragraph introduces the giantess, and we’re off to the races. A writing rule-of-thumb is to describe action sequences tersely so the pace moves along. You expend your expression and detail on sex scenes, using luxurious-sounding latinate verbs, and you take your time just as the lovers do in their love-making. Not so, in “Blink”: this highly sexualized vignette is described with the brevity of a chase scene, which is appropriate since the tiny man is laboring to give the giantess what she wants, while keeping himself safe. Note that the writer never uses the words drown, kill, die, or anything like that. He leaves it implied: what do you think will happen to our hero when her vagina swallows him whole? It’s the unspoken concern that’s in the tiny man’s mind and in ours.
Like I said before, the writing is colorful and imaginative but this draft lacks refinement. He misuses adverbs, like with “squeezing wetly” and “pressing warmly.” It’s communicated to the reader that there’s a lot of wetness accompanying the squeeze and the tiny man’s being pressed into something warm, but you can’t squeeze in a wet way or press in a warm way. (The writer uses forms of pull 15 times, suck four times, squeeze seven times, and clench only once, in reference to teeth. Never mentions clamp or clutch.) Regardless, it’s easy to gloss over these liberties and appreciate what the writer was getting at, for the sake of momentum.
He also takes some liberties with biology. I doubt a woman would write about a prehensile vagina that can clamp down on a tiny man’s arm and tug him inside—unless she were a sci-fi author imagining a lover other than human—but that feature is what ramps up the terror in our little hero. It was bad enough that he’s too feeble to resist the mere swat of her fingers, bad enough that her lubrication made climbing her pubes too slippery to attend to her clit. Now the vagina is a living thing that can act upon him, and it’s one more opponent he’s too weak to resist. As soon as his feet slip inside her vulva (the writer never uses the words vulva or labia), he begins sinking within her, drawn inexorably by her ravenous vagina. Some scenes don’t make sense, like when her vulva pressing against his armpits while he massages her clit, and with one more tug his arms are abruptly bound at his sides. As I keep saying, the whole thing could stand a substantive edit.
The drunken giantess demands that he gratify her, or she’ll stuff him inside her. Yet the more he works on her, the more his body is consumed, and his struggles to free or defend himself also elicit greater ardor. It’s a lose-lose situation, and the woman has less and less concern for his well-being as she approaches climax. Most of the story is told from the tiny man’s POV, with brief interruptions to highlight her pleasure at his actions; as soon as she cums, the tiny man isn’t mentioned again. In one run-on sentence she wonders if he’s okay, her orgasm strikes and she writhes in pleasure, and then, drunken and exhausted, she passes out. End of story.
And I loved that. I loved the negation of the former main character, how it all turned to focus on the woman’s condition because, for all practical purposes, there was no one else in the room. We understand what happened to him but it’s never hinted at, no more struggles, no more passing concern. For some reason this too hits me the right way, how pathetic it renders him, abandoned in the depths of a careless woman’s sexuality. Why do I like that? What does that say about me? I don’t think men are throwaway creatures to be sacrificed for a woman’s idle amusement. I definitely don’t want to drown. And yet I thrill to the image of his anguished face, helpless and terrified, disappearing between reddening, glistening folds of sexual flesh, his screams muffled as he’s surrounded by an overwhelming, heedless, selfish orgasm. Is it related to why people like horror movies? Are we paradoxically attracted to the experience of fear, the way we cook with bitter herbs and peppery spices, using flavors that should be a warning? The threat of death heightens the sexual experience, like nearly asphyxiating while a large rump uses our face for a seat, but how is that a survivable trait? It has nothing to do with propagating the species and everything to do with finding a way to amplify something that’s already plenty good. It’s a need for more and more, until our journey takes us right up to the border of existence. I don’t want to be the tiny man suffocating in the clench of a balmy vaginal canal… but part of me thinks that would be amazing.
(Editor’s note: Blink can be read in full here: http://mamabliss.com/stories/story_blink.html)
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