Mant Farm (Chapter 1) (Patreon)

John couldn’t say at what point the flirtatious encounter with the beautiful stranger had taken a left turn. The brunette woman was tall, full-bodied, not overweight but lopingly curvaceous, and gracefully easing into her forties; though he didn’t often think in such instantly ravenous terms, the first syllable in John’s head was “MILF.” He’d been waiting for a goddess to step into his life for some time now, and today, it seemed the odds were in his favor. What’s more, she’d approached him in the coffee shop, and the only thing sexier than her body was her attitude.

Her name was Ruby. She had a way with words, not to mention how she tickled his ears with those long manicured fingers, and in no time had charmed John out to her car. That was where the memory cut off.

On his hands and knees, John wondered if he’d been dumped on the side of the road, until he noticed the glass walls on either side of the loamy path, which stretched twenty feet across before the translucent blockade. The beige road extended evenly in either direction up a hill. Was this some kind of terrarium? He crawled to the nearest wall, and pressed his nose against it. Through the image was warped, there was no mistaking that John was looking out across the vast landscape of a gingham-patterned kitchen tablecloth. A fruit bowl the size of a canyon rested beyond. What kind of optical illusion was this?

Out the corner of his eye, he saw other men stumbling down the hill. At least two dozen, perhaps more. Before John could think of questioning them on his bizarre whereabouts, though, the glass wall shuddered as though by earthquake. Like a door upon a mighty hinge, the way opened up to the tablecloth below. Then John saw her.

It was Ruby, all right. Just as gorgeous and buxom as he recalled, albeit wearing fewer clothes, as she was stripped down to a set of cream-white bra and panties. Her flesh, luminous and ample, was not the first thing that snared John’s attention, though. What caught him off guard was the fact that Ruby now stood somewhere in the neighborhood of one thousand six hundred feet tall.

“Hello?” John muttered, doubtful she could hear him. He waved his arms over his head, though her dark eyes didn’t notice. “Ruby? Can you help me? What’s going on here?”

“Good afternoon, my loves,” Ruby purred. Her sultry voice was like the rumbling of an oncoming thunderstorm. Those broad fingers petted the tablecloth in warning, then stroked her building-sized thumb along the cusp of the glass-encased path. The ground trembled again.

John realized the cluster of wandering men now stood beside him in a crowd; all of their silent attentions were paid exclusively to the gigantic mountain of woman currently addressing them.

“We have a new resident of the farm. I hope you’ll make him feel welcome, and provide him any instruction he may need in adjusting to life in my hands,” Ruby explained. Her voice was jovial, almost musical, but her words were gravely serious. The heads of the other strangers beside John bobbed with agreement. Sighing contentedly, Ruby sunk her thick hourglass figure back into a throne of a chair, then smiled winsomely at the crowd of men.

The reality that this woman wasn’t a giant but that he, in fact, was now so incredibly tiny as to fit in a plastic habitat of some kind was just starting to creep in John’s mind. There was no time to come to terms with this fact, though, because Ruby’s palm was open and flattened into a cushy gangplank at the height of the path.

“Climb into my hand, boys,” she said softly. “Now.”

The rest of the crowd obeyed instantly and commenced hopping aboard the massive appendage. John, following survival instinct, did so as well. Compared to the quarter-inch bodies of her so-called residents, Ruby’s hand had the surface area of a gymnasium, though its uneven, plush terrain wouldn’t have fooled anyone otherwise. They might as well have been on the moon. Her rosy-pink skin was warm and creased in every which way, emblazoned with minute lines and spirals that John might never have noticed at full size.

The hand crossed the ocean of the gingham tablecloth, passed by the wide and lovely cliffside of Ruby’s exposed stomach, and then descended. Just before it disappeared from view, the structure became visible to John. It was no terrarium: only a simple ant farm. Wind whipped past the several dozen occupants of the giantess’s palm, until it slowed at the level of the ground, and Ruby’s fingers tipped toward the earth.

“Get down now,” she whispered. Again they obeyed.

John followed the militant crowd of Ruby’s men, and was just now starting to work out that calling for help was likely not going to get him anywhere. It was obvious that she’d never actually been interested in him, either for a date or even a hookup; she was looking to add to a collection. His skin crawled. Then, and only then, did John notice Ruby’s bare feet, which was a tough thing to miss, because they looked about as long as an airport runway apiece.

Sun-kissed, a little pudgy, yet strong and well-cared for, Ruby’s feet slapped gently in rhythm on the tile floor. Her burly toes danced in a wave pattern, and occasionally scrunched together, bringing to mind the visceral concept for John of what it might be like to become entrapped between those titanic digits. There would surely be no way of fighting the folds of feminine flesh and the drive of even her most petite toe.

“I’d like at least ten of you per foot. Let’s say, oh, one per toe, and the rest underneath. Chop chop, now.” Ruby didn’t even deign to look down again once she’d reclined in the chair; evidently, the workers knew their duties, because they split evenly between the two massive peds without a word. 

Both of Ruby’s feet arched up from the floor high enough to let the ant-sized men scatter beneath on their haunches, which they did. Her sole was healthily blushed, and rife with mature wrinkles. John noticed that the toe positions were taken very quickly: plainly, that was the preferred job, probably because it offered light and fresh air still. Which meant he was on sole duty.

For the length of a breath, he considered the feasibility of sprinting for cover. Maybe Ruby was distracted enough that she’d never notice. Then he took another glance at those digits, remembered that her pinky toe alone could render him a bloody smear with one misplaced stroke, and he jogged after the group.

Crouched under the shadow of the brunette’s lavish soles, John found himself in hesitant awe. Ruby’s foot was its own sky: one composed of peachy flesh and age-weathered creases, but a sky nonetheless. Unsure what to do at first, John began by merely reaching overhead and rubbing the nearest ceiling patch of foot flesh. A massage had to be safe, right?

The giant foot was soft and doughy, yet firm with flexible muscle under the surface, and each casual stretch of the landscape released a light whiff of perfume and sweat preserved like wine. It wasn’t exactly pleasant, but John figured he could manage until a chance for escape presented itself. Then he chanced a peek around, and realized no one else was simply caressing Ruby’s foot; they were doing that as well, but every single man in the employ of the amazon was kissing and licking the sole flesh with a vigorous effort.

It was a real spectacle, watching dozens of hapless men on their hands and knees, all making out with the living beast of Ruby’s foot. Across the aisle, under the woman’s other lovely appendage, the others were following suit. This was like watching synchronized swimming; everyone, without so much as a reminder, was hard at work languishing their mouths upon a foot so enormous it would squish them if Ruby got too comfortable and let herself slip another quarter-inch flush with the tile.

So, deciding he didn’t want to risk being singled out, John opened his jaws and pressed his lips up against the ceiling of flesh. His tongue fit rather snugly into the roomy dip of Ruby’s sole wrinkle; when she twitched ever so slightly, the grooves of her gritty, flower-scented skin ground along his tiny muscle. The taste was at least tenfold strength the potency of the smell. Flavors of powdery soap and dried perspiration, maybe the downy fibers of a stocking, washed inside John’s cheeks. However, he fought the gag reflex, and carried on. It was disgusting, yes, and undoubtedly degrading, but livable. He just had to keep a low profile until his chance to flee presented itself. All the while, he carried on the makeshift massage, even though he was pretty sure his and everyone’s puny hands were too meek to be barely more than a tickle for Ruby.

This wasn’t a real massage. If she wanted a pedicure, she’d go to a full-size professional. No, this was a symbol. A show of power. That possessiveness had wafted from Ruby at their first meeting in the coffee shop, and John found it sexy then, but now that same control was frightening like nothing else in life, when she was the size of an ecosystem unto herself.

After an hour of work, John’s lips were chapped and tired; his shoulders were too sore to keep rubbing the wrinkles of her sole. At last, light streamed in along Ruby’s instep, and her feet were lifted away, only to slap down on the tile just out of crushing range. The force of the drop was so strong that it bowled over several shrunken workers, John included.

“That was a good start, boys,” Ruby boomed. “You’ve made me very happy with your hard work, but save your strength. There’s plenty more uses for you that I can think of, and I’ve not even begun to fully relax.” Her fingers drummed on her knees, and though his view was partially blocked by the sky-high horizon of the woman’s legs, John could tell she’d since rid herself of her limited clothing. No underwear dressed her now; Ruby was naked as the day she was born, except for a glistening silver necklace and a bracelet. That fact became ever-more apparent when she leaned back toward the ground and cupped her palm on the tile for re-embarking; her bulbous breasts jiggled with the effort, pulled by gravity, but reformed their spherical shape once all the men had loaded up and were being lifted up again.

“Guys,” John hissed at his compatriots. “Talk to me. What’s happening? How do we get out of here?” No one even looked at him, though, as Ruby’s hand floated straight up to the level of her chin.

“I’m about to have a little appetizer before my dinner, so I’ll put you away while I get ready, and then you’ll be on pit duty. How does that sound?” Ruby questioned brightly. The men all shook their heads again like little robots.

Pit duty? Was that what it sounded like? John took a few steps backward out of instinct, then remembered there was nowhere to run, unless he planned to hurl himself off the edge of Ruby’s palm.

The woman’s hand delivered them all back to the ant farm. John piled after his mute fellows as they landed on the path, then watched the glass wall closed behind them with a gentle push of Ruby’s fingertips. This act left a spiraled fingerprint on the window wider than John’s entire body. For ten minutes afterward, the men watched in silent wonder through the wall as Ruby busied happily about the kitchen, still comfortably in the nude, making herself some toast with tuna.

Despite the terror of his new size, John’s gaze was drawn to the natural dance of Ruby’s exposed body. Those hips shimmied with every step, the pert heft of her breasts bounced merrily, and the planetary globes of her ass cheeks were utterly mesmerizing. John was right about at least one of his many incorrect assumptions from their first meeting: he did get to see what was underneath those clothes. What kind of ultra-bohemian madwoman was this, so casually going about her business in her birthday suit, and showing off her assets for a crowd of dutiful shrunken slaves?