Bethany let out a long, frustrated sigh when she saw who was pulling up to the QuikBurger's specially made, oversized drive-through window next: it was Brock Biggs, the "biggest man in town." Brock was a business owner and real estate agent, as well as the most powerful member of the city council in the little town of Barlomie; he stood nearly fourteen feet high, making him over three times as tall as four-foot Bethany.

It was Brock who paid to have a larger drive-through apparatus added to the QuikBurger, as well as the many of the stores in town. In fact, at one time Brock stood nearly twenty feet tall -- unheard of around the area -- but he started using his considerable wealth to transform the town to accommodate his bulk. Most of the denizens of Barlomie were considered "normal height" by the rest of the world's standards or, like Bethany, a little under. Barlomie was a smaller town, and most of the people who lived and worked there either never left it, or left it and never looked back.

Bethany reluctantly greeted Brock through her headset, and cringed when she heard the smug man's voice fill her ear and rattle off a long order. "Will that be all today, sir," she asked; it was an effort to keep civil.

"Not unless you want to throw yourself on top, sugar plum," came the deep-voiced reply.

"That'll be twenty-two fifty, asshole."

Bethany cut off her earpiece before it let in too much of Brock's insufferable laughter. Hopefully he pays and then goes the fuck on his way, the young woman thought to herself.

The familiar roar of Brock's custom-made roadster sounded outside the special drive-through portal; he revved it several times, calling out to Bethany and whooping. She opened up the sliding plastic pane and glowered at him, hollering "It's not ready yet!" over all the noise he was making. Then she slammed the window shut, but she could still hear the towering man's laughter on the other side of it. He sat there in his open-topped red convertible, dressed in a suit and sunglasses, his short dark hair slicked back: literally a giant yuppie, she mused darkly.

One day, somebody's got to cut that bonehead down to size, Bethany thought, her face sour. She knew it would never happen, though. That's not the way the world worked: people like her just got smaller, and the rich only got more rich, and more powerful, and larger in size. Bethany added a familiar rider to her thoughts: fuck this world.

Len, one of the cooks at the QuikBurger, called out that Brock's order was up and Bethany turned to retrieve the heavy bag and large drink that would feed the giant man waiting outside. She passed it to him with a frown; Brock grinned back at her.

After leaning out to hand him his drink and complete the order, Bethany pulled away, eager to be rid of the sight of him, but Brock quickly reached out and grabbed her small wrist inside his big fist.

"Now wait a minute, sweet pea," Brock drawled.

Bethany's brown eyes were wide and angry as she tried to yank free of his tight fingers; she couldn't. "Let me go, you fucking creep!"

Brock clucked his tongue at her and smiled. "Come on, now. That's no way for a lady to act." Brock's fist tightened a little as Bethany continued trying to worm her way out of his grip. "Listen, why don't you hang up those rags for the day and come with me to the parade? Why, I'm sure it's all just some hullabaloo for a lot of nothing, but just think of all those people paying attention to you, with me, in this big ol' car of mine." Brock grinned wider and patted his lap, still holding onto Bethany's wrist.

"I said let me go!"

Brock licked his lips as he tugged on Bethany's arm a little more, nearly forcing her bodily through the window as her short brown hair whipped about her face; he oogled her chest, his eyes flickering between her breasts. "You know, I like 'em small, honey. I mean, that's all I can get, you know? Being so big." Brock licked his lips again, this time slowly -- from one side to the next -- and he drooled a little out of one side of his mouth. "But as I said, I like 'em like you."

Bethany had never been grabbed the way Brock was grabbing her now. She'd been mugged before, but that was at the point of a knife, and the man ran away after she handed over her purse. She'd had a boyfriend -- who was a virgin -- get pushy about sex, but she kicked him between the legs and he left her house in tears. One time, exiting a store, a cop had grabbed her arm and forced her to hand back the video game she stole. In all those instances, Bethany felt like she had some control: she could hand her wallet or the game over, and that boyfriend was a total wuss.

But Brock -- Brock had her arm in a grip that made her genuinely afraid, and pulled on her with a strength she couldn't fight. Brock was bigger than anyone who'd ever threatened Bethany before.

She didn't know what she could possibly do to stop him.

So Bethany spat at Brock.

Block closed his eyes and his head snapped back with surprise; her wet blob of spittle glued itself to his cheek and dribbled downward.

Then Brock's eyes fluttered open -- and rage clouded his features -- but Bethany felt his fingers loosen on her wrist, and she immediately yanked her arm back through the window.

"You're going to regret that, little missy," Brock said under his breath; all the humor drained from his face. "You mark my words."

Bethany looked Brock squarely in the eyes. It was hard to -- her mind was absolutely racing -- but she forced herself to do it. "Fuck you, Brock."

"That, too," the man said, and his car engine roared. He glared straight ahead and drove off in a rush, leaving Bethany standing there, rubbing her wrist.

"I hate this town," Bethany muttered as she listened to the sound of Brock's car engine fade with distance. Still, part of her was instantly proud that she'd managed to stare him down, and not curl up then and there in a ball of tears, like the other half of her wanted to all the while.

Bethany had never liked living in Barlomie, but she never had enough to go anywhere else. She dreamed of just packing up her car and driving off, but whenever she thought it through it seemed like she'd just be burning away the rest of her meager savings, and end up living a smaller life somewhere she hated just as much.

Bethany knew a few people who had left. Her thoughts drifted to her best friend growing up: Caleb, a sweet, shy boy from Thailand who happened to end up in Barlomie by way of adoption. He hated it there as much as she did, and he ran away without even finishing high school. She found a note taped to her locker the morning after he left, and all it said was: "You were my only friend. I'll always miss you. Sorry, Bethiebear."

Her face tightened at the memory. She imagined she would never forgive Caleb for not taking her with him. He never sent word after, either. She had no idea where he was, but sometimes, in moments of kindness, she liked to imagine that he was okay, and happy: somewhere better than Barlomie.

"I can't wait to leave this shithole," Bethany grumbled.

"You always say that," came a soft voice behind her.

Bethany turned to see Len's worried face; in his hand was a baseball bat, and behind him were two other cooks: Daniel and Steven. The older man looked suddenly embarrassed about the weapon he brandished and shook his head. "Well, we weren't just going to let him take you." He swallowed, and then looked ashamed. "Though I really would have liked to break his hand."

"That's okay," Bethany said quietly. Her small smile was pained. "Thanks, Len. Thanks, all of you. But that asshole's not worth losing a job over."

Daniel and Steven went back to work on the line, but Len dawdled for a moment. "You know, I had a daughter who upped and left. And really, it was because of people like big ol' Brock fuckin' Biggs. Took all I had to send her elsewhere, but she's happier, no doubt about it. You ever need my help, Bethany -- well, you just let me know.

A series of honks sounded outside from the drive-through menu with its speaker and microphone.

"Well, back to work," Len said, with a sigh.

"Back to work," Bethany agreed, sighing, too. But then she called out to him, and Len paused and looked back. "Thanks, Len; really."

Len smiled. "One way or another, it'll get better, sweetheart."

Bethany's face turned dubious.

Len just grinned. "I mean, it's gotta, right? Can't get worse than this shit."

And Bethany laughed.

###

Brock glowered as he sat in his big red convertible with his smaller girlfriend Marybelle perched on his lap.

The automobile gave every impression that it was a toy, save for its considerable size: to fit on the same roads as other vehicles, it was far more narrow than it would be otherwise, and only had space for one person of Brock's stature. There was little room left over on its seat, and even someone like Marybelle -- who was a standard five-foot-ten -- was too large to sit comfortably beside him. The car was tall, too: it had four wheels all where they should be, but they were skinny in width, like disks. Brock could pay to alter the establishments around town, but he didn't have the capital to completely remodel Barlomie's streets, and so he was forced to buy a special car. A more affluent city would have wide roads to accommodate the conveyances of the well-off -- the truly rich simply strode around like colossi.

The appearance of the car never really bothered Brock before -- he liked to stand out -- but on that day he had a bad feeling he couldn't shake, and sitting in his car bugged him for reasons he couldn't put his finger on.

"Don't you want to get a little closer to the parade, honey," Marybelle asked; she had her arms around Brock's neck and was searching his large face with her big blue eyes, but Brock wasn't looking back at her.

He was staring down the road, toward the square and its forty-foot-tall monument to the founder of Barlomie.

It was a statue of a man mounted on a horse, which was itself mounted atop a heavy stone base, which had a plaque inscribed with words Brock knew by heart: it was the tale of how Joseph Barlomie built the first structures of the town -- a general store and a motel -- by hand; how he was a man who hated the "lazy sycophants" of the world, and thought a person could only truly control their destiny through commerce; how, as the town grew, Joseph Barlomie was quick to welcome those who were ready to work hard, and quicker to drive out those who wouldn't; the final sentence read: "Joseph Barlomie was careful who he chose to call 'friend,' and suffered no fools." It was Brock's favorite part of the inscription.

"Brock?" Marybelle's eyes flickered over her boyfriend's tightly set face with worry.

He blinked and shook his head in an irritated way and glanced at her. "What?"

"We never have parades or anything like that. Doesn't it sound fun? Why don't we drive a little closer and park this thing," and Marybelle nuzzled closer, lowering her voice, "and get a little closer to all the action?"

"This thing," Brock growled, meaning his car, "costs more than everything you own, Mary Bee. "Besides, we'll be able to see whatever there is to see just fine from here."

Marybelle scooted away a little along Brock's long legs, but there wasn't much room for her to move before his bulk, and his arm curled around her a little more out of possessive reflex. She studied him again, but he ignored her; she hated when he acted in such a huffy and self-absorbed way -- typically Brock was a lot of fun, if one could overlook his smug arrogance.

Marybelle decided that if she was going to be stuck watching the parade from such a far perch, then, well, that's what she'd do. She sighed a little and stared down the street: the sidewalks were packed with friends and neighbors, all expectantly looking away from her, and toward the square. There was an excited buzz of chatter, and she could already hear what must have been the beginnings of the parade reaching her ear: a marching band, the kind she'd see back when she'd go to football games in high school -- Brock used to play, though Marybelle was more bookish then, and Brock hadn't noticed her yet -- and she listened with some small euphoric pleasure to the bombastic trumpets and drums and horns and whistles as the cacophony approached.

And that's when Marybelle noticed something that made the hairs on her neck stand on end: what appeared to be a tall woman, standing head-and-shoulders above the buildings around her.

Just as soon as Marybelle saw her, the woman was gone, stooping down toward something in the street and out of sight. She heard what sounded like happy laughter, too -- a woman's laughter -- and all at once the head was there again: a woman's head with dark brown skin and black hair. Marybelle couldn't see all of her face, only its profile, and before she got a good look at her features the woman disappeared once more on the other side of the town's five-story hotel: Barlomie's tallest building.

"Did you see that," Marybelle asked, turning toward Brock. His face was pale and his lips were stretched into a thin, tight line; it was an odd face to make, for him, and something about it scared Marybelle to see, so she quickly glanced back toward the parade.

Her breath caught, and she heard even Brock let out a surprised gasp behind her. The street was filled with the parade procession: a full marching band, gayly playing, and with flourish. Behind them stood a giant.

"Oh, little town of Barlomie!" The towering woman called out with her booming voice to no one in particular, standing there in the middle of the square in a pose: one leg was bent before the other, swan-like, and her arms were raised with palms up as if she was carrying the sun; the giant drank in the attention of the crowd, but paid them none of it in return. "It's sooo very good to be here!"

Marybelle was surprised that she could hear the woman from all the way down the street. They must have been at least half a mile away.

"Who is she," Brock growled.

Marybelle quickly retrieved her phone from her purse, punching in search terms. "I have no idea, hun. I don't see any news reports of her coming to town. I don't recognize her. Isn't that strange? I mean, someone her size, you'd think there'd be something."

"She's not that big," Brock mumbled. "I'm sure to the rest of the world, she's no one special."

Marybelle, who had never been bigger than average, giggled at the way Brock was acting, not at what he said; he caught that and glared at her, and Marybelle stopped. Brock's nearly clear green eyes slid back toward the square far down the road, and the giant woman blocking his view of the statue.

She was a portrait of perfect femininity, as if she had designed herself as surely -- or better -- than any god could: her body was top-to-bottom curves, with slender arms and legs, and full hips and breasts. The woman wore the kind of fashionable attire that Marybelle would kill to be able to try on, let alone fit into -- she'd never be able to afford a dress like that, unless Brock was paying the bill. The woman's skin tone was a beautiful chestnut brown, and Marybelle could make out her striking face, now: eyebrows that were thicker and black but looked bold instead of bushy; dark eyes, a petite nose and mouth between sweeping, elegant cheeks.

Blond, blue-eyed, tall, and trim Marybelle didn't find herself wanting to be another woman often at all, but she felt keen jealousy, looking at this giant person -- her figure suited her so well for one, but also because of her size. She was the biggest person Marybelle had ever seen; for a long time, that had been Brock.

Self conscious at how she stared, Marybelle quickly lifted her phone. "I'm still looking," she muttered softly, concentrating on its glowing display. Her connection lagged, and she saw that the device's service flickered between one bar and two. "My reception is awful this morning, anyway. I'm sorry, Brock, but I don't have even the slightest idea who she could be, and I don't think my phone's going to tell me."

"Then let's go find out," Brock said, and the engine of his red convertible roared to life.

Circe loomed thirty-two feet tall; her strappy high heels added nearly another two feet. She was taller than nearly all of the buildings around her in the town square, save for the local hotel and the statue of Barlomie's founder -- the awed women and men who stood beneath her only came halfway up her shins.

Her legs and arms were bare: she was clothed in a simple, form-fitting one-piece dress that ended mid-thigh -- everyone in Barlomie would be short enough to see up her skirt to the orange-and-white-striped panties she had on -- and wore a tasteful, varied assortment of necklaces and bracelets and anklets that jingled as she moved, the shining gold set off by her dark brown complexion.

Ahead of her, Circe saw a street lined with the excited Barlomie townsfolk; between the rows marched the band that heralded her arrival. Directly before her was the mayor of the town and his council -- the supposedly elected who were -- by no coincidence, Circe ruminated -- the most affluent business owners in the community. Circe quickly scanned their faces and frowned. They were all above average in height, but not notably so. There seemed to be someone missing from their ranks, a man she'd heard about who was nearly half as tall as her -- well, no matter; he'd be easy to spot, no doubt.

The towering woman grew impatient as the mayor, who was a stooping older man maybe eight feet tall, droned on about what an honor it was for her to have chosen Barlomie as the site for her expansive mansion at the edge of town, and how many jobs the project created, and how her wealth would no doubt help transform Barlomie into the modern suburban center it so badly wanted to be. Money and jobs; Circe scoffed. She didn't care about either, but both were useful to make fools out of people, and to control them.

Circe swung one leg forward and ignored the startled cries of the knee-high council as they dove to the side to avoid her huge foot. Circe just barely saw how one woman in a formal blue dress with frizzy red hair had to press herself flat to the ground lest she be kicked, and that the sharp heel of her shoe cut the woman's billowing garment as it passed dangerously close over her -- then the smaller woman was out of Circe's sight as the giant's long limbs carried her forward.

Circe had been walking gingerly before; she didn't bother now. She steadied herself as the heel of her shoe sank down into the pavement of the street, and then the flat area of her high-heel beneath the ball of her foot and her toes slammed down with a crash. When her foot lifted up, the road was potholed and ruined in her wake -- she left a series of shoeprints.

Panicked shouts rose up from the crowd as Circe sauntered down mainstreet, tearing it up as she stomped after her band. Cars rocked on their tires and creaked; vehicle alarms went off. Most of the band continued cranking out their raucous tune -- the brave little players -- but the rearmost musicians were shaken from their feet, their instruments clattering to the ground. They had to scramble like bugs to get out of the way of Circe as she walked forward. She finally came to a stop in the middle of her band; the music abruptly cut off, and all that was left was panic.

Circe pretended not to notice any of it.

"What a quaint little town this is," Circe called out, as if she was simply strolling down the street with a friend window shopping, and not ruining the street with her heels. She stopped and approached what looked like a pharmacy with its name spelled out on a tall, vertical sign; the crowd out in front of it dispersed to either side of her. Just the nearness of Circe's feet sinking into the ground put enough stress on the foundation of the store that its windows exploded outward -- the glimmering shards sluiced off of Circe's bright orange nails like a flow of diamonds.

The giant woman gazed down at the store, which was waist-high; she smiled down at the crowd around her as if she might be speaking to the owner. "Do you know how dirty your roof is? I can tell I'm the first really tall person that's ever visited Barlomie: the town looks pretty gross from up here. And this sign," Circe swiped her hand casually in front of her, backhanding the sign and sending the top half of it crashing down into the street to a chorus of smashing metal and plastic, and screams.

"No, this simply won't do. Barlomie, we really need to talk about this. Especially if I'm to feel at home here."

Circe turned then and started walking down the street once more. Everyone ran from her: the a band she'd hire to play, the half-dozen police officers who had been patrolling up and down the sidewalks to make sure the street was clear, the townsfolk, the city council. They all ran until they thought they were safe from her, and then they stopped and looked up at her: their curiosity about this giant woman was simply too strong.

"Oh, and these cars!" Circe complained facetiously and brought her foot down onto a white sedan parked on the side of the street; the front underside of her high-heeled shoe covered the hood and windshield of the vehicle. "Why, they're everywhere! Constantly underfoot," she whined, pressing her foot down with a squeal of twisting metal and an outward explosion of glass. Circe dark toes went pale as she forced the front of the car flat beneath her.

"Things are going to have to change around here, Barlomie," Circe stated in a tut-tut tone. "That much is certain."

The roar of a car -- louder than any of the automobiles down at her feet could muster -- drew Circe's attention and she whirled around; she smirked at what she saw. A garish red convertible -- smushed in from its sides -- had pulled up and the large man in its cockpit was revving the engine, as if to drown Circe out. The car was tall, coming up to Circe's mid-thigh.

She had to admit: it worked. That car sure was loud, even if it looked ridiculous.

Circe approached the vehicle, eyeing up the slick businessman sitting at the wheel, and the attractive little blond in his lap. The giant stood with her hands on her hips, waiting for him to finish, but like a child with a new toy, the man pumped the accelerator with amusement that seemed like it would never end.

Until, finally, it did.

An uneasy silence settled over the the pair. All eyes were on Circe and this newcomer; he must be the town's council member who was absent, she mused -- formerly the tallest person in Barlomie.

"And who might-"

Circe's sentence was clipped off as Brock once more went to working the accelerator, drowning out any chance for conversation with the roar of his roadster's engine.

The giant rolled her eyes. "Compensating, much?" Circe asked lightly. "Let me help you with that," she said.

The giant woman lifted a leg and, in one smooth motion, kicked down at the hood of the car, driving the hard spike of her shoe through the metal and into the guts of the machine. The roar of the engine abruptly died as oil bubbled up out of the wound; when Brock worked the accelerator all the car could manage was a limp gurgle.

The relatively tall man behind the wheel looked at the oil bubbling out of the hood with disbelief; his face turned as red as his car's paint. He scrambled from his seat -- nearly sending the woman who sat in his lap tumbling to the pavement -- and charged around the front of his car to square off with the giant, who stood over twice as tall as he did.

"Now listen here, you bitch," Brock began, wagging a finger up at Circe.

"Language," Circe murmured, her lips pursed.

"You think you can just stroll in here like you own the place. Well think again, sister!"

"Tone," Circe warned.

"I oughtta knock your fuckin' block off-"

Circe grinned. She stooped down in the street, lowering her face down to where Brock could reach it. "Go ahead, sweetie," she said. "I'll give you the first swing."

Brock's eyes bulged. He looked around at all the expectant faces -- and Marybelle, off to the side, with her hands raised and balled in front of her mouth -- and then back at Circe's large, looming head, and her delighted smirk. Brock screamed and rushed, swinging his fist as hard as he could: he hit Circe's mouth, hoping to knock a tooth loose, but the woman pursed her lips and absorbed the blow without even flinching.

Brock's voice wavered as he shouted, "Barlomie's our town! You're not welcome!"

Circe rose back up before Brock could swing again; she cocked her own arm and then brought it downward, striking Brock in the head with her fist. Brock crumpled to the pavement, his body limp, blood pouring out of his nose. The flesh around his eye and cheek was hot and red, fading quickly to a bruised purple and yellow. His mouth hung open and Circe saw that the fallen man was missing a tooth.

She grinned and looked around, seeing the scared little blond -- who backed away into the gathered townsfolk -- and then to a stooped old man, the mayor, who was trying his best, Circe mused, to look bold.

"Young lady, you just, you just, you just can't do this!" The tiny mayor's legs shook more and more as Circe's gaze lingered on him.

"I can, and I will, and I already did," Circe retorted, the smile never leaving her face. For a moment she looked down at the man strewn at her feet, as if waiting for him to rise.

When he didn't, Circe straightened and looked around the crowd, locking eyes with all the little people. "But why -- why did I do it? That's the important thing. You're all invited. All of you. Young and old. Rich and poor. I'm having a party tonight at my mansion; it's almost finished. If I destroyed your store, if I crushed your car, if I tore up your road -- well, come and see me. I'll make everything right. For any and all of you."

Circe caught the eyes of one startled little woman in the crowd; she was shorter than average and had a sweet look to her -- she wore an outfit like a fast food employee. Circe smiled widely at the little woman, and winked. "Come and see me."

Then the giant woman grinned like a devil and swept her eyes around the crowd again. "I've got big plans, little Barlomie, and stuff like this," Circe said swinging her arm lazily to the side and punching her fist through a billboard on top of a store next to her, "is part of the old Barlomie. I'm here, now, and nothing will ever be the same."

With a haughty laugh Circe turned away from the crowd and stomped off, leaving shoeprints in the street as her sauntering form headed toward the looming mansion that was nearly finished at the edge of town. It was the new largest structure in Barlomie, and could be seen from anywhere in town.

###


Bethany walked behind Len and the two other cooks who usually worked her shift, Daniel and Steven, as the four of them shuffled through the wide-open gate that marked the edge of Circe's property; her elaborate mansion loomed ahead of them.

Outside the mansion's big double doors were the makings of the kind of grand gathering that Bethany had only seen in movies: there were tents set up, covering long tables heaped high with food and drink. The throng of townsfolk that Bethany walked as a part of spread out across the grounds, gravitating toward whatever food looked delicious, or drink that enticed. Closest to the door, Bethany saw, was the mayor and his ever-present circle of council members, though Brock was notably absent again.

Len whistled. "Well will you look at all this. I hope they don't ask for any of us to help foot the bill." He picked up a small plate that had bits of seafood skewered on toothpicks, and plucked up one that held a bacon-wrapped scallop. "Lord, I haven't had a scallop in forever."

"Christ, look at this thing," Daniel said, reaching for a fancy cocktail: the generous pour of liquid was a brilliant blue, and there we a pineapple wedge hanging off the rim of the rim.

"I bet that won't stop you from drinking it," Len quipped.

Daniel laughed, already raising the glass. "Hell no. Damn, it's strong, too. Delicious."

Bethany reached for a plate of seafood of her own and ate while she chatted with the others. She'd never had an oyster before, yet here one was, waiting for her raw and finely shucked without a hint of grit. She found out that she really liked oysters.

"People pay good money for this kind of grub," Len said.

"And drinks," Bethany said, picking up a cocktail in a martini glass that was the color of chocolate.

Steven was already on his second plate, and spoke around a full mouth of food with barbeque sauce on his lip. "Hell, I bought ol' Brock mother-fucking Biggs has parties like this all the time. But he's never invited me to 'em."

"You gotta be rich," Len said.

"Or agree to be that evening's piece of meat."

Daniel raised his glass a little at Bethany, looking a little watery-eyed already. His speech was a little loose, but Bethany could tell he was trying to say something he really meant. "I've always admired that about you, Bethie. Guy like Brock would lavish you with gifts if you put out, but you never have. Not for him, I mean. Um."

Bethany laughed. "Uh, thanks, Daniel. Brock's a fucking pig. I don't care what kinda happiness his money could buy."

A sudden hush fell over the crowd and Bethany, Len, Daniel, and Steven all looked toward the silence to see the two huge front doors of the mansion pulling inward.

There stood Circe, who Bethany thought towered even a little taller than she had before. The giant woman wore a simple, flowing white toga that was cut in a way that made it look modern to Bethany's eye and also to hang off Circe's curves in a way that didn't obscure then; Circe also wore a thin wreath in her long black hair -- which flowed about her face and over her shoulders -- like a tiara, and had on a pair of gladiator sandals, with gold ropes tied up her tan lower legs.

Circe smiled widely around as she stepped out from the mansion and onto the grass of her yard, not even bothering to stop or look at the mayor and his group; the comparatively tiny entourage glowered as she passed, but there was nothing they could do to stop her.

"Well, hello, hello, hello!" Circe called to people as she passed.

It was impossible for Bethany to take her eyes off the giant woman. Of course, part of it was a jealous wish to swap lives with the lumbering woman, but there was also a warmth that Circe radiated that Bethany found alluring; she was so friendly to the people she stooped to greet. As much as Circe clearly enjoyed all the attention, she didn't seem like a vapid, fawning celebrity walking down a red carpet. At several points Bethany saw Circe completely stop to talk to someone, even lifting a few people up; something which made Bethany chew her lip when she saw it.

Tiny Bethany couldn't take her eyes off of Circe's as the giant walked around, mingling, meeting and greeting. It seemed her path would bring her right to Bethany, but that seemed impossible -- would someone like Circe really notice her? She heard Len and the other cooks talking, vaguely, somewhere else, as if she'd slipped into another dimension on her own and was the only one in it -- her and Circe. And then all at once the giant was right above Bethany, who found her legs shaking. It wasn't from fear; she was just that excited.

Before her with Circe's huge brown feet in their gold sandals, toenails painted purple with intricate patterns done in white -- each longer than Bethany was tall. A pleasant, fruity scent called at Bethany's nostrils; a foot lotion, perhaps, and Bethany found the aroma alluring. Circe's toes wiggled and Bethany blushed; it was as if they were wiggling at her. Then she looked up, up, up Circe's long legs and her flowing toga and to her gorgeous face, and she very nearly yelped when she saw the giant was looking straight at her.

"Hello, there," Circe said.

The giant woman gracefully lowered herself down and reached a hand toward Bethany. The tiny woman was embarrassed to find her drink falling from her fingers, but Circe's smile was knowing and amused. "Just keep still," she said, and wrapped her large fingers around Bethany, cradling her and lifting her from the ground. Bethany felt weightless and light-headed as she rushed up through the air and Circe straightened. She held Bethany in front of her large face and grinned at her, looking her over.

"Hello, doll," the giant said.

Bethany blushed. It wasn't like when Brock hit on her, making his size a part of it: Bethany liked being complemented by Circe, she found, and hoped for more.

"What's your name," Circe asked.

"Bethany. Uh, or Beth, or Bethie; whatever you prefer." Bethany could feel how hot her cheeks were; they must have been red enough to glow, even in the dim light of the evening.

Circe chuckled. Her voice was deep and resonant, and had a power to it; Bethany had never been this close to a giant before, and found it enthralling. Circe's gleaming white teeth flashed as she grinned. "Hello, Bethie; I'm Circe."

The small woman was at a loss of what to say but felt that she had to say something. "I know," Bethany said meekly, and instantly felt stupid. "I... It's good to meet you!"

"Likewise," Circe said, and her eyes widened a little and light flashed across her pupils. Then a shiver of pleasure spread out across Bethany's body in waves: Circe was rubbing up alongside of Bethany's body with her thumb. "I'm glad you came today. Are you enjoying the food? The drinks?"

"I... I am!"

"Good, Bethie. Very good. I have to say, it's always a worrying thing, moving to a new town, but seeing that people like you are here -- well -- I'm a little less worried now."

"What," Bethany asked. She couldn't believe that this giant woman was coming on so strong. Circe's thumb stroking her felt so good, so right. She didn't want Circe to put her down. She wanted to stay in Circe's large, warm, soft, strong hand all night. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Circe said, and brought Bethany's small body up toward her face: "That I want to get to know you, Bethie. I want to be friends." Circe arched an eyebrow. "And I hope you do, too?"

"Oh, yes," Bethie breathed.

"Tell me, are you happy here?"

Bethany didn't know what to say. The answer, of course, was no she was not. She definitely was not happy living in Barlomie, and never had been. Circe was new to town, however, and just spent a lot of money to build a colossal mansion there -- even for a giant like her. Bethany felt pressure to lie to Circe and tell her that Barlomie was a great place to live. Really, with the money the giant had, it probably would be -- with that kind of money, anywhere must have been great, Bethany ruminated.

Circe smirked. "You hate it here. It's written all over your face."

Bethany gazed back; she couldn't say anything, she was horrified.

"It's okay," Circe cooed, and her thumb continued to pet Bethany. "Stick with me, little one; there are going to be changes around here. Big changes. But I promise: I'll take care of you."

Bethany didn't know how to act, or feel. She couldn't believe where reality had taken her. She didn't want it to end, or to be anywhere else. It took everything she had not to whimper.

But it was to end, it seemed: with a friend smile, Circe was lowering her back down to the ground at her feet. And then the giant woman's fingers, so invitingly warm, left her for the cool air of the evening, and Circe was straightening.

"Come and see me again sometime," the giant ordered, and turned, and strolled off.

Bethany nearly fainted. Len and the cooks rushed around her, and Len in particular grinned. "Well, seems like you and her really hit it off. Pays to have friends in high places, huh? Didn't really peg you for someone good at rubbing elbows, but the way she was smiling-"

And then Bethany did faint. Len's voice spiraled off into nothingness as she sank downward. She vaguely felt their hands on her, trying to support her and ease her fall. When she came to Len was cradling her head, and Daniel and Steven were looking down at her with worry; Daniel held a glass of water and offered it to her.

Len grinned. "There you are. Hey, there; hey, now. That was quite the sinking spell that just took hold of you, missy."

Bethany's cheeks felt hot. "Oh god, I'm so embarrassed."

"Don't be," Len said, and chuckled. "Everyone's too busy having a good time; or too drunk."

"Circe," Bethany murmured.

"She's done her rounds," Len said. "I think this party's almost over."

Bethany found the giant with her eyes. Circe stood tall, hands on her hips, a smirk on her face, with all eyes on her. A hush came over the crowd, and everyone waited for her to speak.

"I have a deal to offer you, Barlomie. I've decided to make this town my home. All of it. The town's kind of in the way, I mean." Circe grinned around, and her dark eyes looked right at Bethany. "The choice is yours whether you want to stay with me, or not. If you do, that's great: I'm building a new Barlomie, one that'll be better than ever, and you're welcome to live there. The only catch is, you've got to give me everything." Circe's eyes moved on, then, sweeping around; her voice was deep and throaty: "and I mean everything."

The townsfolk collectively gasped, even Bethany. She knew what the word "everything" implied, of course, but she didn't have a lot to give: what could she possibly offer someone like Circe?

As if reading her mind, the giant continued: "In return, I'll reward you. You give me your land, your house -- which of course I'll demolish -- your car -- which I'll scrap -- and all of your possessions and cash -- as meager as they are -- and I'll take care of you. You'll never go wanting. You'll live here with me, in New Barlomie, and you'll never have to work again, save for the work we'll do together as a community. You'll have no mortgage or rent to pay, no bills, no nothing: I want to turn Barlomie into a paradise, a utopia, a place that'll be the envy of the world."

Circe paused as an excited hum of conversation bubbled up. Could it really be true? No more labor? No more bills to pay. Len and Bethany looked at one another in surprise; it sounded like a dream come true; it sounded like the escape they'd always talked about.

"So, who is with me, Barlomie?" Circe's voice boomed happily, drawing their eyes once more. "What do you all say? Do you want to change the world with me?"

A collective cheer was Circe's response from the people. Even Bethany found herself throwing her arm in the air and crying out happily, tears of joy streaming down her cheeks.

Bethany couldn't get Circe out of her mind. The woman wasn't at all what she expected. She was used to be overlooked -- not noticed. When she was, it was for all the wrong reasons, like being treated as a toy to sate Brock's lust. The talk Bethany had with Circe was the most human the young, small woman had felt in a long time, even as brief as it was. She felt like Circe had seen something in her that she wanted someone else to see.

And yet she hadn't gone back to see the giant, not yet.

Others had. There was a line of cars down mainstreet every day since Circe's proclamation: people waiting in line to see the woman and turn over everything that they had, and be kept in her care. It seemed such a crazy offer to Bethany. What did the giant woman get out of it? On the one hand, she loved the deal, especially when she thought about living in leisure with her friends, who were few: sipping cocktails and eating bacon-wrapped scallops and listening to Len's dry humor sounded pretty good.

On the other hand, it all sounded too good to be true. Bethany didn't have a lot. If she turned it all over to Circe, she'd have nothing, and no control: she'd just met the woman, and she'd be entirely at her mercy.

And yet, part of her wanted it.

Bethany was daydreaming of Circe's giant, soft hand and stroking thumb when she saw the large, shadowed shape on the other side of the front doors to the QuikBurger; inside she soared as she imagined it might be Circe, then she glowered when she saw who was really coming through. Of course, it must be Brock, given the size of the person. Sure enough, the brute roughly pushed the doors open and forced his way inside, stooping to fit through them and then glaring as he approached the front counter.

"Here he comes," Bethany heard Len mutter behind her.

She turned to give him a strained smile. "I got this. Hopefully he's just hungry."

"The boy's always hungry for buuullshit," Len observed ruefully. "Never fills up."

It took everything Bethany had not to burst out laughing. She could feel Brock's heavy footsteps shaking her legs as he approached, and she turned back to face him. He kept his sunglasses on, but half of his face was bruised, and it was clear he had a vicious black eye.

"Welcome to QuikBurger," Bethany recited as impersonally as she could muster. "Can I take your order?"

"Can it, shortstuff," Brock grumbled. "We got a real problem here."

"I'm sorry," Bethany said, feigning ignorance. "Was there something wrong with your food?"

Bethany jumped at the sound of Brock slamming his fist down on the counter. She'd never seen him so mad, and the way he glared down at her chilled her from the inside out. It was then she saw that there was something off about Brock: he wasn't his usual impeccably done-up self; his hair wasn't as meticulously combed, the lower lids of his eyes were swollen and discolored, his clothes were rumpled, as if he hadn't changed -- in fact, Bethany saw, they were the same clothes he was wearing the day before. She stood there, shaking, waiting for Brock to speak.

"What's this about, man?" Len was suddenly beside her, Bethany realized. "You want to eat? Because that's what people do here, Brock. Or are you just here to cause a ruckus."

Brock -- disheveled, heaving, hulking Brock -- looked between the two, but instead of growing anger seizing his features, it was growing disbelief. "Don't you two see what's going on here? Did you not see that dress-wearing King Kong stomp into town and fuck everything up? Why, there are ruin roads out there, and smashed storefronts -- it's like we had a riot. I heard what she said at that 'party' of hers: all horse-shit."

"She says she's gonna fix the roads, man," Len said, tired.

"That and I'm sure she's got enough money to redo those storefronts a hundred times over. Just like you did here, Brock. Once," Bethany added the last word softly, but Brock still glared hard at her for it.

"That's not the point," Brock said. "She's looking to take over. She's looking to walk into town and make us into a buncha bitches -- worse, slaves, maybe! -- and expects us to just roll over and let it happen. Well, I ain't gonna let it. No, sir. When I improved this place, I did it to bring in more business, and-"

"Yeah," Bethany snorted, "your business. That drive-through is too big for anyone else." The more Bethany listened to Brock's rambling, the less afraid she felt of him. There was something cartoonish about his anger -- and hypocritical.

Brock jabbed his chest with his thumb. "My business has been propping this small town up for years. You should be thanking me for giving you a way to serve me. I'm the most successful man Barlomie's ever seen!"

"Not anymore," Len laughed. "Well, I guess you can still be the most successful man if you want, Brock, but that gal's twice the person you are. In fact, at that party, she was already looking a little bigger."

Brock slammed his fist again, and Bethany and Len both jumped, but they looked at one another and chuckled immediately after. Brock laughed, too, but it was a strained, forced, frustrating sound: "You two sure aren't making this easy. Look, that giant-sized bitch is going to ruin this town. Mark my words. The two of you make think this place is a shithole, but that's your own damn fault for never doing anything with your lives."

Len whistled.

Brock sighed. "Listen. You're with her, or you're with us; the town, I mean. Barlomie. Your home. Are we really going to let some outsider come in here, turn the town upside-down, and claim it as her own? We can't let money turn ourselves against one another."

Bethany looked at Len, taking off her headset, and the little hat she had to wear. The older man gave her a surprised look of sudden realization, and then his face softened and he nodded.

Then Bethany turned back to face Brock. "You really are stupid, Brock. You just don't get it. Our home? Barlomie's never felt like a home to me. And money's already turning us against one another -- it does that all over the damn world. Money's more important to people than people. You use your money to keep the rest of us down, even. You're living in a fantasy world, and it's finally falling apart. The only people who are going to side with you are ass-kissers and idiots; Circe's offering the rest of us a way out."

Bethany raised the counter's flapped and stepped around to the other side, where Brock was, fuming. She looked him in the eye as she walked right on by him, and kept going, toward the doors. "I quit," she called, pushed her way out the doors and was gone.

Brock gazed after her, mouth hanging open, then turned back to Len with a tightening expression. "All right, so tiny's out. Who cares about that? She'd only be pulling the rest of her down. Right now we need big players." Brock glared at Len. "So what'll it be then, fry-flipper? I'm not going to come by with this offer again. Frankly, you're a bit too small to really make a difference anyway, but anyone on our side is another person she doesn't get. So, what'll it be?"

The older, smaller man rested both his hands on the countertop and lowered and shook his head. He looked back up with Brock not with fear, or worry, or anything else; he just looked tired, and like he was amused at how life could still surprise him after all this time. "You sure love to run your mouth, boy." Len chuckled softly. "Order some food or get the hell out, Brock."

###

Bethany walked along the line of cars, which patiently rumbled and moved up every so minutes. No one really cared about the gas they burned: they were giving everything away anyway.

Ahead of her was Circe's looming mansion, and just the thought of the beautiful giant it housed made her blush as much as if she were back in the woman's hand. The long walk to the mansion's front doors made Bethany feel even smaller than she was, like she was a bug crawling across Circe's lawn. She could never imagine a life that let her be as big as Circe, as alluring as it was to imagine. Still, she felt more hope in her than she had in a long, long time, walking toward the mansion with the intent to give herself over to the giant.

A younger woman who Bethany thought she recognized -- vaguely; maybe they went to school together -- waited at the door. She was one of many people who looked to be volunteers, or something: they all wore similar uniforms, and were all about seven feet tall.

"You've gotta wait your turn, honey," the woman called to her. "Go get your car and pack it with all your worthless shit -- we're gonna crush it -- and leave your valuables at home, if you got any. We'll come for those."

"I don't have a car," Bethany said honestly, already feeling worthless to Circe.

The uniformed woman raised an eyebrow. "Well, all right." She motioned off to the side with the pen she was holding. "Walk-ins are over there. You still gotta wait in line."

Bethany looked over at the long, long line and sighed feeling the heat of the day bearing down on her. She turned back to the much taller woman and smiled and nodded. "Thanks," she said meekly.

"Sure thing, hun."

"Wait," a powerful voice called out.

Bethany gasped and saw Circe strolling over; the towering, tan woman wore a smile on her face; her eyes were fixed on Bethany. Circe had a simple outfit on: a loose white blouse and tan faded orange capris; she wore a wide-brimmed, floppy sun hat and a pair of black sunglasses with large lenses; her huge brown feet were bare, Bethany saw, as they came to a stop right before her. An alluring musk caught in Bethany's nostrils; it was fruity, like lotion, with a hint of salt like sweat.

Circe kneeled down and lowered a hand, palm-up, before Bethany: "hop on, doll."

Bethany's breath caught in her throat, but she didn't waste a moment before obeying Circe's command: she scrambled onto the giant's big, soft palm and let herself be lifted up. The ride up toward Circe's chest was as dizzying as it was at the party; it was almost as if Circe was even larger than she had been before.

"Let me show you around," the giant said, her voice amused.

The huge fingers curled around Bethany protectively and then the world started moving beneath her as Circe walked. She could feel the force of the giant's steps from her perch on Circe's palm; the ground was alive, and pulsed as blood pumped through veins unseen below Bethany's form. The comparatively tiny woman felt wrapped up in Circe's warmth and scent once more, and again felt like she was somewhere she never wanted to leave.

Circe strolled through the mansion's large double doors, stepping into a space that was absolutely massive for little Bethany. It seemed to be built for someone even larger than the giant who held her, as if Circe had left quite a bit of room to grow. Bethany looked all around her, marveling at the space, and caught Circe smirking down at her.

"Quite big, isn't it? Too large, even for me. Well, right now." Circe held her hand up and relaxed her fingers so that Bethany could see: the mansion had several tall floors, and was built like a palace, with balconies and terraces and chandeliers and ornate decorations; Bethany felt like she'd stepped into a fancy hotel lobby, or maybe even was transported back in time to the temple of some lost goddess: there were friezes and busts and busts scattered around, depicting lewd scenes, and naked figures. Bethany was in awe.

Then Circe's hand lowered and the giant woman was grinning down at her little guest. "I'm a movie producer. Well, more than that: I wrote, directed, and bankrolled my first film just last summer, and have two more on the way. Maybe you've heard of it, if you like science fiction: it was called The End Of The Universe."

Bethany's eyes widened when she heard the name. "Oh my gosh, I loved that movie. That was you? I'm not just saying that. I watched it three times in the theater."

Circe's grin widened. "Yes, that was me. I'm glad to hear you appreciated it. It's done quite well, as you can see. In fact, I could be bigger, if I wanted. Right now, most of my money is in an account not directly connected to me. I can funnel cash to and from it at will, of course, but for the moment, this is a useful size."

Bethany's head spun, listening to Circe talk about such large sums of money so casually. It seemed obscene, how much money and power the woman had. More and more, she felt like she was in the temple of a goddess: a living deity, not one lost or forgotten.

Circe lowered down, then, and opened her hand once more. Bethany's eyes widened at what she saw: there, being constructed by doll-sized laborers, was a town like Barlomie, but much smaller in scale. It looked like a toy village, even to Bethany. There were even what looked like little citizens walking around.

"This is the new Barlomie. Well, for now, at least. This is where I'm putting people who give me all their worldly possessions. Once I own this town, I'll knock it down and build something better."

Bethany looked up at Circe in surprise. The tanned woman's serene face watched her back. There was a kinship she felt with Circe that she couldn't quite put her finger on; even the woman's face appeared familiar -- the same as with the uniformed woman before, Bethany wondered if Circe and her went to school at some point, but she knew that was a silly thought. The huge changes Circe was making to her reality were scary to consider, but, the more she considered them, she found them exciting. It's like an apocalypse had gripped Barlomie, yet Bethany was going to come out of it better than before. In a way, Circe felt like an answer to her hopes and prayers.

"You can live here, too, if you want, Bethie. Or," Circe started to walk again, moving around the town and heading toward a winding staircase. "You can stay with me."

"With you," Bethany asked.

As soon as she'd spoken the words, she found her world shifting as Circe's hand hovered through the air and tilted. Suddenly Circe's large, round breasts were underneath her, and Bethany was sliding down Circe's large, smooth palm and plummeting through the air, toward the opening of the giant's blouse.

Bethany landed on Circe's bare chest and slid down into the space between the woman's breasts, her body fitting perfectly in the woman's cleavage. Bethany's head stuck out, and she saw the staircase ahead, and felt Circe's breasts rubbing all around her as the giant woman began to saunter up them. Then there was a gentle weight on her head, and pressure, as Circe pushed down on her and forced her deeper between her warm, soft breasts.

Bethany blushed in the hot darkness, completely taken aback by where she found herself. Bethany was no stranger to sex, but she had never been with a woman -- even something as innocent as kissing a friend on the lips. And yet the place where she now found herself was exciting to her. Before she had time to really process it, or feel it building, she found she was incredibly turned on: it wasn't just Circe's breasts; it was her size, and her power, and the way she controlled her.

When Circe's large fingers came for her again, Bethany felt that all-too-familiar regret at being taken from where she was: she was pulled out into the open air and gripped by Circe, who stood at one of the many balconies of her mansion. This one overlooked the actual town of Barlomie, and Bethany looked out over the long line of people and cars leading to Circe's home, and of construction crews already at work tearing down portions of the city. The sight of it was stunning to Bethany, and for a time both of them simply watched the vista in silence.

"You were born and raised in Barlomie," Circe asked.

Bethany looked up at her, her voice shaking. "Yes," she answered, "I've been here all my life." It wasn't fear that gripped her, it was excitement, for Circe, and for the way Barlomie was changing so fast, molded by the whim of this unstoppable giant. "And all my life I've wanted to be somewhere else," she added.

"And how do you feel, watching Barlomie get torn down to the ground?"

"Good," Bethany breathed. "I..." She gulped. "I almost wish it was in flames, instead."

Circe burst out laughing, but it was a happy sound, and Bethany relished. She felt exhilarated that, even as small she as she was, she could affect someone so large.

"I like the way you think, Bethie." Circe turned away from the balcony and sat down in a seat. She pulled a small circular table from the side of her seat and placed it before her, then gently set Bethany down atop it.

Circe settled back in her seat and reclined, crossing one leg over the other. Her bare foot bobbed in the air, as if to a tune only she could hear. Her dark brown eyes gazed evenly at the tiny woman before her. Circe was in fact larger than she was the first time Bethany and her met, the little woman was right: she was now almost fifty feet tall, and the four-foot-tall woman appeared to be something like six inches in height to her.

For Bethany, the view of Circe was a grand one: the circular platform she stood on was only as tall as Circe's knee; the dark-skinned goddess loomed high above her, arms draped casually on the armrests at her sides: she seemed more like a queen on a throne, than a movie director. Everything about Circe seemed in its proper place, and almost too perfect. And then there was her face, and the familiar look of it that Bethany couldn't shake, like her and Circe had met before; part of her felt like she'd known Circe all her life.

Circe's voice startled Bethany: "So, have you made your decision?"

Bethany swallowed, looking up at the giant. She wanted to ask questions, but felt like she should already have the answers; to ask anything seemed like a disservice to Circe, and more than anything she didn't want to displease the giant woman.

Circe leaned forward in her chair, grinning; she rest an elbow on her knee, and cupped her chin with one hand. "Cat got your tongue, doll?"

"I want to give you everything," Bethany said in a rush, breathless. "I want to give you everything you want."

Circe arched a precise eyebrow and her eyes glittered; the corners of her mouth ticked up in a small smirk. "Everything? That I want? Why, I'm rather insatiable, Bethie."

Bethany couldn't contain herself. She did what felt right: she fell to her knees before Circe. The same arousal she felt diving down between Circe's breasts flooded the tiny woman again. It excited her to submit to Circe. Fear welled up in her suddenly -- Circe burst out laughing, and Bethany feared the woman's rejection -- then she saw the hungry, happy way Circe gazed down at her, and the fear went away; there was only the electric crackle of anticipation.

Circe's large body moved; she sank back into her seat, again resting her arms at her sides as if on a throne. The giant swung one of her legs up and Bethany saw the lightly brown sole of Circe's foot approaching her platform; Circe gentle set her foot against it, the edge of it sinking into the plush flesh just beneath her toes. On her knees, the toes were as tall as Bethany, and Circe's familiar musk caught in her nostrils once more.

"Crawl forward, then, pet. Kiss my toes. Worship your goddess, and surrender yourself to me."

Bethany's body moved as if of its own accord; she raced forward on her hands and knees and pressed herself up against the underside of Circe's flesh. She found the briny scent of the giant woman's toes intoxicating; pressing her lips against the silky flesh of Circe's toes was more exciting than any kiss she'd ever experienced. In the distance, between the woman's toes, she could see how Circe grinned down at her, and closed her eyes, as if relishing the experience. It encouraged Bethany, and she found herself lapping at Circe's toes, tasting their salt.

When Circe didn't stop her, Bethany let her body take over: she licked Circe's toes as if she meant to clean every inch, and even stuck her head between them, to lap at the soft, damp flesh were the toes met one another. Bethany felt drunk with arousal, and even heard Circe moan in the distance. "My goddess," Bethany breathed, licking at the salty skin and swallowing Circe's sweat.

The air chilled and it started to rain, but Bethany barely paid any mind to the soft drizzle that fell around her. Bethany felt as if she'd fallen through a crack in reality and found herself in a different dimension; it was as if she was watching someone else get to do everything she wanted to, deep down, but was never able to. Submitting to Circe felt like the most natural thing, and when the huge toes left her, and Circe reached for her and plucked her up, she still felt as if she was swimming in a dreamlike fantasy. Bethany was weightless between Circe's fingertips, and watched the balcony disappear from under her, turning into what must have been Circe's expansive bedroom.

Circe unbuttoned her blouse with her free hand and pulled the garment from her shoulder; then she slid it down her other arm, and the fabric billowed all around Bethany's small form as it was pulled away.

The giant's hand rotated and Bethany fell from her fingertips and onto her waiting palm. Circe sat on the edge of her bed and looked down at the tiny woman's form, holding her before her big round breasts; the chestnut-brown orbs ended in pert nipples as dark as loam.

Looking up at her goddess, Bethany saw a change there: one she didn't expect. For the first time since her arrival in Barlomie, Circe looked vulnerable. Her eyes didn't pierce Bethany, instead, they looked toward her, and then bounced away, as if Circe was seeing things only she could see: searching through her thoughts, Bethany reasoned.

"Circe," Bethany ventured finally. "What's on your mind?" She rubbed at the palm beneath her, making an attempt to be reassuring.

Circe's face softened, and she raised Bethany up so that she was right in front of her face; that face, Bethany thought again, so friendly and familiar. It was as if Bethany and Circe were best friends -- soulmates, even -- in another life.

Circe's voice was impossibly quiet and soft for someone so large:

"Don't you recognize me, Bethiebear?"

Bethiebear. The name tugged at her, from deep in her past. It was like a hand reaching out through time and tapping her shoulder. All at once she was back in high school, on the worst morning of her life, and there was a note taped to her locker telling her that her best friend in the world was gone and wasn't coming back. Bethany studied Circe's brown eyes, which were slick with a sudden wetness. The way Circe started back at her, it was full of want, and worry, and knowing. Bethany's mouth dropped open a little.

"Oh my god. Caleb?"

Circe's eyes widened a little; the giant head nodded.

"Caleb!" Bethany leapt to her feet, standing atop the giant woman's upturned palm.

"I always hated that name," Circe muttered.

"I..." Bethany looked the giant woman over: it was Caleb, she knew it was, and yet she may have never known if Circe hadn't said something. Her body was magificent, with no signs of any surgery.

Circe saw the way Bethany looked at her. "With money, you can do anything." She cupped one of her breasts and rubbed her thumb against the nipple. "My body alone is worth more than all of Barlomie. Really, I have more money than I know what to do with."

Silence settled, then, as Circe and Bethany looked at one another. Rain pattered against the balcony behind Bethany as the storm picked up; in the distance she could hear the sounds of the town: of all the cars, and the construction. The air coming in child her, and the smell of the rain took Circe's sent away from her for just a moment. She felt lost without that scent, and stared up into Circe's eyes. She saw that the giant woman was crying.

"Do you," Circe swallowed, "can you forgive me?"

Bethany felt a weight settle on her; the weight of a decade's worth of rumination, and pain, and hope, and wonder. It crashed down on her all at once, but just as quickly she pushed it all away. She rushed forward and wrapped her arms around Circe's raised thumb, which straightened a little more. Bethany showered the giant woman's thumb with kisses

"Of course I can," Bethany said in a rush, but even as the words came out of her seemingly unbidden, she knew they were true. "I can't believe you came back for me."

The giant woman lifted her hand and grinned down at Bethany, wiping the tears from her eyes. Bethany continued to cover Circe's thumb with loving pecks.

"Circe, my goddess! Oh, now this is even more like a dream come true!"

"I didn't want to leave you, Bethie. And every day since I did, I always wanted to come back. But on my own terms. I couldn't return to Barlomie the way it was. But we can change it, now, with my money. Together. We can make it anything we want."

Bethany stopped kissing long enough to grin wickedly up at Circe. "Then let's tear it all down."

Circe bit her lip; her fingers curled around Bethany's tiny body and the giant woman reclined atop her bed. She set Bethany down on her bare chest as she unzipped her capri pants and shimmied out of them while lying on her back; Bethany alternated between covering the large breasts around her with kisses and hanging onto one of Circe's pert nipples as her goddess finished disrobing.

"There is one piece of me I haven't changed," Circe said, smiling down at Bethany. "Maybe some day, but I'm still rather fond of it."

Bethany looked down the length of Circe's magnificent body and watched the woman dip her hands into her panties and scoop out the bulge there; Circe pulled her cock free of the silky garments, her member already tall and stiff. Bethany had never seen Circe's cock before -- as close as they were, they never fucked, though Bethany would have liked to -- and she felt herself get wet between the thighs just at the sight of the pillar of flesh taller than she was.

Bethany looked up at Circe's excited face, biting her own lip now. "Oh, goddess; your cock is beautiful -- just like every part of you!"

"Then worship me, pet. Show me just how beautiful I am."

Bethany raced from Circe's bulbous breasts and across her flat stomach, feeling the firm muscle beneath the woman's flesh. Circe's dark pubic hair was trimmed short, and it tickled Bethany's soles as she ran across it. She embraced the big, thick cock as eagerly as she did Circe's thumb, and wrapped her arms around it. Bethany pulled the taut, firm muscle against her and pulled down on the giant's flesh, sliding her foreskin down and revealing the reddened, glistening head; Bethany's pressed her lips against it; she licked at Circe's slit, enjoying the salty, sweet flavor of her precum.

Circe arched atop her bed with a moan. She could feel all the little details of Bethany's feminine form against her cock; she reached down and wrapped her hand around both, and tightened her fist, pressing Bethany against her. Then, slowly, gently, she forced Bethany up and down along her hard shaft. It felt so good to use Bethany to get off; the tiny woman squirmed, and kissed, and licked, and used her little limbs to wrap around Circe's cock as best as she could.

Circe couldn't contain herself any longer. She quickly plucked Bethany up and brought her around before her cock; the little lady looked up at her with such a raw look of lust and pleasure that even just her aroused little face drove Circe over the edge: she came, her hot cum splashing across Bethany's breasts and her face; she held Bethany there as she pumped, holding her close as more white, milky cum came out of her in waves. In poured all down Bethany's body, covering her like a glaze.

Circe's mouth hung open; she breathed hard. She looked down at Bethany and licked the tip of her thumb and then wiped the comparatively smaller woman's face. "Sorry," Circe said, embarrassed. "I didn't mean to come so soon, but trust me, I've been thinking about this moment for a long, long time."

Bethany only grinned. "Well, let's make it more than one moment, then, Goddess Circe."

###

Circe was sitting back, resting on the many pillows piled up at the end of her huge bed. Bethany kneeled on the woman's chest, kissing her breasts. After being wiped off with a tissue, Bethany had gone to work tirelessly pleasing Circe's form, starting at her soles and kissing her way up to where she was now -- stopping at all the right spots.

Circe half wanted to ravage the tiny woman once more, now that she was recovering from her orgasm some twenty minutes earlier -- she had the same thought when Bethany was licking her cockhead clean on her way up her body -- but she was enjoying the feeling of Bethany crawling all over her and worshipping her with her lips and tongue, while she listened to the rain pattering against the glass of the balcony doors and smoked a cigarette.

"Soon, I'll let you go wash up and get dressed. Then you can head downstairs. My servants will get your set up. I'll be able to control your size and all that, but I won't make you tiny like the rest of the people you saw in my little approximation of the town of Barlomie. In fact, you won't live there at all."

Bethany perked up, stopping her worship for a moment so that she could speak with her goddess. "Does that mean I can stay here with you?"

"Yes," Circe said, blowing a plume of smoke into the air. "On the bed, sometimes; I'll get you a cage. There's a small room you can use, too, connected to this one. If you're good, maybe I'll let you keep a bed in there and sleep with a little privacy. Maybe."

"I'd rather be out here with you." Bethany grinned. "It's like this was your plan all along."

Circe winked. "That it was, pet. Besides, you don't want to live in that little toy town anyway. Trust me."

Bethany cocked her head. "Why is that?"

Circe looked coolly at her tiny worshipper; she reached out and stroked at Bethany with her fingers. "Tearing the town of Barlomie down is just the first step. After I have everyone right where I want them, well... I plan to make this place -- and its people -- history."

Hearing this, Bethany's gaze lowered. She found it hard to look into Circe's eyes, because she suddenly felt the need to hide her thoughts. More than anything, she wanted to see Barlomie get torn down. But, at the same time, she thought about Len, and Daniel, and Steven. Bethany didn't have a lot of friends in Barlomie, or even people she considered close in this life, but it felt wrong for them to suffer whatever fate Circe had planned for the town.

"What is it, pet?"

Bethany shook her head, ashamed that her thoughts would run counter to her goddess's.

Circe's large finger moved under Bethany's chin and forced her to look up at her. Bethany didn't see the anger she expected in Circe's visage; instead, the giant woman gave her a knowing look.

"You're the only person I care about here, but I left a long time ago. In all that time, I imagine you've made a few friends, at least. Write me a list. I promise I'll spare anyone you tell me to. Have your friends write lists, too, and then we'll even have their friends name names. This small circle of people, starting with you, will survive the fate that awaits this wretched place."

"Oh, goddess!" Bethany breathed and fell forward onto her hands, kissing between Circe's breasts. "Oh, thank you!"

Circe closed her eyes and blew more smoke into the air. "Of course, pet," she said. "Now crawl up here and give me a kiss. I have some business to attend to tonight. There are some people in this town who need a little more encouragement."

Bethany crawled forward, kissing her way up Circe's neck, then her chin, and finally pressed her face against the woman's huge, plush lips and kissed her there, too.

She giggled in surprise as Circe's hand suddenly scooped her up. Then she moaned with pleasure as she was plunked down on those big, soft lips, and Circe's tongue slipped out between then and lapped at Bethany's sex. Bethany rocked her hips on Circe's lips, and Circe rhythmically licked at her pet until she came, screaming Circe's name between gasping moans.

###

That evening, Circe sat on the balcony, alone, in the cold rain, gazing out across the city. Her construction crews continued to work in the dark and the rain; they were simply tearing structures down, after all, and didn't have to be precise about it, or careful. Less than half the city was lit up. The rest of it -- the darkened lands -- were places where the townsfolk had already turned themselves over to Circe. The people who used to live in those homes and apartments were now the size of bugs to the giant woman, living in a toy city in the foyer of her mansion. With relish she watched as her old high school was knocked down in the distance.

Circe had more money than she ever dreamed she would have. Her sci-fi film was already spawning a universe of books, and toys, and cartoons, and new deals came in every day.

She pulled her phone out and sent a few texts: orders she sent to agents acting on her behalf, as she prepared to deal the final fatal blows to what remained of Barlomie.

Then Circe tapped over to the app she used to control her accounts. For what she wanted to do now, she needed to be just a little bit bigger again.

Donald, Barlomie's chief of police, sank back into his seat with the glass of wine in his hand. He looked down into it as he swirled the liquid, lost in thought.

The man loved wine, and knew that the bottle that the town's mayor shared with him was a fine one indeed. Typically that exclusivity alone was a flavor Donald enjoyed, and yet the party at the mansion -- with all its fine food, to be had by anyone -- and the poorer folk of Barlomie trading up in droves for what seemed like a pretty good deal made the wine sour in his mouth.

"Troubling times we live in," Donald remarked finally.

"Troubling, indeed," Paul, the old, stooping mayor agreed.

Beside Paul was his wife, Wendy, who reached for the bottle to pour more wine for her husband; Donald held his cup out for her, too, and nodded at her with a smile. Both men were about eight feet tall; Wendy was a shorter six. Like many old-fashioned male-led households, Paul set up his finances in such a way that he'd be considerably larger than his wife.

"You know," Donald said, "I'm beginning to think there's something to that coalition Brock's got going on. I know that'd mean giving up our money for the time being for the greater good, but there seems to be no stopping this giant bitch we find invading our town. Every road leading to her mansion is packed with lines of people ready to give up all they have for her little experiment. Hell, she owns most of the land around here, even. What I wouldn't give to be able to march right into her house with my deputies and shoot her dead."

Wendy cleared her throat softly. "I'm going to get myself a water, if anyone wants anything."

"Folks have gone mad," Paul murmured, watching his wife go. Then his eyes glanced back toward the windows, and the rain running down them, and the darkness beyond. "Why, can't they just be happy with what they have? Freeloaders just looking for a handout -- all of them! If ol' Barlomie himself were still here, he'd kick the lot of them right out. Makes me sick to call myself their mayor."

Donald smiled ruefully. "Well, while I wish we could just ditch the lot of them, ol' Barlomie never had to kick people out by the dozen - let alone hundreds of them at once. You got to hand it to that woman: she came in here and played folks like a fiddle. And now here we are, our money and influence all meaningless. I have to tell you, Paul: I've half a mind to just get in my truck and leave Barlomie behind."

Paul glared at the police chief; his thin, colorless lips twitched. "Don't you talk like that, my boy. This is our home. Barlomie is sacred ground." Paul listened to a distant, short thump, like thunder; his face softened. "Besides, this tomfoolery will blow over soon enough, and then the rabble will be back, begging for our help and leadership. No, I won't sign up with Brock, and I won't sign up with that Circe, either. To hell with them both!"

There was another echoing THOOM in the distance, and the odd shortness of it -- and how close it came to the noise before -- made both Paul and Donald furrow their brows.

Wendy popped her head in from the kitchen. "Dear? The water ain't working."

"What'dya mean 'ain't working,'" Paul asked, irritated.

"I turn it on but nothing's coming out," Wendy complained.

Somewhere out in the night, in the darkness, the sound the men heard continued, a steady THOOM! THOOM! THOOM! that made them all stop and listen. Shortly after each rumbling noise, Paul, Donald, and Wendy all felt waves of energy shake up through their legs from the floor.

"What's that," Wendy asked.

"Does that sound like thunder to you," Donald asked the older man.

"Wendy, go get my gun, right now," Paul commanded. "It's her!"

The approaching, thunderous footsteps came nearer and nearer, clearly heading directly toward the mayor's house; there was a cascading crash, as Circe no doubt ignored buildings that were between her and her target. And, finally, nearly overhead, a peel of joyful laughter.

"I got a shotgun out in my truck," Donald said, leaping up from his seat.

"Wendy, now!" Paul called in his feeble voice.

"Ha-ha-ha!" A voice chuckled directly above the house; glasses and plates rattled on the table, and Wendy stumbled on her way up the stairs, screaming.

Both Paul and Donald were forced to look upward with startled terror: it sounded as if a tornado was ripping off the roof to the mayor's home. It wasn't a tornado, however: it was Circe's fingers. The entire ceiling came away, lifting upward into the night. Heavy rain splashed down into the exposed room, instantly soaking the mayor and his guest.

"Holy fuck!" Donald cried out.

The mayor gasped and threw up his hands to shield himself from the rain. Beyond his arms he could see Circe's huge face, far larger than it was the day of her parade. Water dripped from the towering woman's dark skin; her teeth glistened in the night sky as she grinned widely; her dark eyes were glowing like moons as the lights of the town illuminated her visage.

"Hello, mister mayor! You haven't come to visit me yet," Circe said, her voice booming. "I'm disappointed. So I came to visit you. What a lovely little house you have here."


Wendy stayed at the bottom of the stairs, where she fell, screaming up at the face that filled the hole at the top of the house; Donald, too, was shaking his head and shouting in surprise. Only Paul recovered fast enough to react, driven with rage.

"You no-good bitch!" The mayor shrieked, running for his coat, which had fallen off of the rack and to the rain-slick ground. He nearly fell over trying to scoop it up, and pulled the dripping garment around himself. "You think you can fuck with me? I'll call the governor! I'll have the state troopers haul your ass away. Hell, I'll get the national guard to shoot you down!"

"Well doesn't that sound like fun," Circe said, watching him run for the front door; she only had to tilt her head to the side to watch him come out the other side. It was like peering into a dollhouse, she thought.

Paul scrambled across the front walk of his home, to the car that was parked out front. Circe chuckled, sounding even more like the thunder they had thought she was, and she straightened and watched the tiny man run.

It was quite a sight for Circe to stand all the way up: she stood nearly seventy-five-feet tall now, half again the height that she was earlier. With her hands on her hips she felt like she was back in her mansion, standing over the model replica she had of Barlomie in her foyer. She had to resist the urge to crush the mayor underfoot then and there; no, she waited for him to get into his car first.

Donald rushed out of the house with Wendy just behind him, both of them gawped up at Circe as she lifted one of their legs.

"Sorry to say, Mayor Paul, but there are still people in this town waiting to see you make a move against me. I simply can't have that."

Paul started his car, muttering angrily. Circe's voice boomed all around him, and he screamed back at it like a senile old man shouting at his television.

Looking out the front of the car, he saw a shadow darken the hood; he saw the shocked expressions that seized Wendy and Donald's faces.

Paul's eyes widened and his head snapped upward to peer through the rain-soaked sunroof, only to see a pure wall of darkness. Then in the next moment the car jerked violently as the roof of the vehicle smashed downward with a spray of glass and a shriek of twisting metal; the windshield exploded into a million tiny shards that shot outward, and sluiced down the dashboard; the underside of Circe's toes settled across the mayor's vision and blocked his view out of the front of the car.

The old mayor hunkered down in his seat with surprised yells and gunned the accelerator, but the car wouldn't budge. "You monster!" He screamed it over and over again.

Ahead of the car, Donald rushed forward, pistol in hand. "You stop right now, or I'll shoot!" The police chief called, aiming his gun up at the giant. "You've already gone too far, and we both know you won't kill him."

"I won't?" Circe asked innocently, her voice loud and powerful to the tiny people gathered around the driveway. "Sure I will. I have great insurance."

The police chief fired his gun, and then in the next moment something huge moved right next to the car, and he was flying through the air. The mayor screamed in terror as he saw the police chief slammed into the garage door in front of him, dent it, and fall to the ground in a heap.

His wife screamed, too, and ran toward his car. Paul reached his hand out to her, calling her name. There was a resounding chuckle high above, and then the hood darkened again: the mayor heard a high-pitch wail that he realized came from his own throat just before the ceiling of the car smashed down on top of him, and he felt his body curl over onto his legs before he was pressed flat with a crackle of bone and a squelch of meat.

High above, Circe stood with her hands on her hips, and one foot on top of the flattened car. She looked down at the wailing woman on her knees in the driveway. "I'm the mayor now. Go tell your little friends to either leave town, or they're next. Unless, of course, they'd like to take my deal."

"Please," Wendy cried, falling to her hands and knees. "Just leave us alone!"

Donald shakily rose to his feet and shook his head to clear it. He saw his gun sitting there in the driveway, and dashed for it; he was quickly intercepted by a giant toe and knocked onto his side. Wendy rushed over to him, but Circe only knocked the poor woman over with her same toe with the barest effort, sending her tumbling away from the fallen chief.

"No," the giant said.

Circe laughed. She placed her big toe on the back of the police chief and forced him to the ground; but her toe didn't stop there: with a long series of crackles and pops she broke the man's spine from his hips to his neck; his ribs popped like twigs as he was pressed into the driveway, and he vomited blood in a stream as he twitched and flopped under the weight of Circe's digits.

"Oops. He's probably going to die, isn't he? Oh well. Accidents happen around people a lot bigger than you. That's just how it goes. Hopefully you won't have to learn that lesson for yourself, because I won't leave you alone." Circe smirked as she looked down at Wendy, lifting her toe from the police chief and showing the tiny people the sole of her foot. "Stay out here, and this will be the last thing you see. Agree to my deal, and maybe it won't. Those are your two options."

Then Circe stomped off down the road, in the rain, in the dark.

###

Brock stood atop the wall that would be mark the edges of his planned fortress. It was shorter than he originally wanted; his supporters were shorter than he planned. As much as hated the woman, Brock had to admit: she was shrewd, especially with money. All his years in business made him able to spot a shark, and yet Circe genuinely took him unawares.

Circe had effectively cut Brock and his group off from the rest of the world. Losing cellphone service was just the start. Circe quickly bought up all the town's utility companies, and just as quickly did away with them. Brock imagined that she kept the water running and the lights on at her mansion, but the town of Barlomie had lost both in the days since the mayor's death.

Brock had declared a state of emergency for his little pocket of resistance, and they now fortified the square of town; they pooled all of their food, and what water they scavenged, and their guns and weapons -- and, perhaps most importantly, they pooled their money. It was their Alamo, and Brock was its General Travis; he was down to a paltry ten feet of height, now, as he spread his money around and tried to keep everyone about five feet tall or more. Any smaller and they'd have a hard time firing a gun, and he needed them to be able to do that.

Circe's construction crews were tearing down the city around the ramshackle fort. Brock and his militia kept them at bay the best they could, but, at a distance, some of the heavier vehicles were able to operate under small-arms fire. It was a losing battle, Brock knew, and it wasn't going to get any better: most of the remaining townsfolk of Barlomie were still lined up to sign up with Circe, despite Brock's best efforts to stop them. He sent his own supporters to plead with the people to come throw in with his lot; he'd even sent a runner to go warn the nearest town of their trouble. It was amazing, without cellular service or an internet connection, just how cut off from the rest of the world he felt. There was no help coming, not unless he could scare some up.

Brock sighed and came down from the fort's wall. Marybelle was there, squatting on a stool and peeling potatoes that night's soup. They all lived like people in a besieged castle, and that's exactly how it felt: they were determined to stretch their rations and cash for as long as it would last, until some help could come.

When Wendy came banging on Brock's door, talking about how Circe had murdered the mayor and it was the end for all of them, Brock could hardly believe it; now the woman spent most of her time alone in a tent, hugging herself and rocking back and forth, mumbling about how the giant would kill them all. Brock would've kicked her out of the camp already for all the noise she made, but he needed her as proof of what Circe had done.

Really, in a way, he was lucky for it: Circe had surely stepped over a line. No matter how rich she was, there had to be justice for that. As much as it felt like the world was falling apart around him, Brock clung to the idea that he could expose what was happening to Barlomie to the rest of the world, and still set things right. How he longed to return to the Barlomie that existed just a few weeks ago -- if he could make that happen, maybe they'd put a statue of him up along in the square, next to ol' Joseph Barlomie.

If anyone was going to turn this situation around, Brock thought, it was him.

He looked down at Marybelle, who looked back up at him. "I don't like that face you're making," she said.

Brock growled under his breath. Ever since everything started going to shit, Marybelle's demeanor had changed with him, too: she had a far harder edge to her, and constantly reprimanded his orders. If he restored Barlomie to its former glory, he'd make sure that changed, too.

"You don't like this face I'm making? Well, I'm making it because I have a mind to go down to that mansion and set this whole thing straight. This is between me and her, really, after all. If I can convince her to leave us alone, that'll give our runner time to bring help. We don't have much, Mary Bee, and we're not going to last long like this. Hell, Circe's wrecking crew could come in her any day, now. But if she's enough of a fool to agree to something like a cease fire -- well, then, we can bring all hell down on her for what she's done her. Could probably sue her ass into the ground, too, and make off even nicer than we were before."

Marybelle stood up and threw her peeler down with an angry huff. "Brock, you goddamn moron, don't you go over to that mansion! She crushed the mayor under her foot like a bug, and the damn chief of police didn't last much longer after what she did to him. You see the state Wendy's in now."

"Ah, hell," Brock said angrily. "I'm not afraid of her like the rest of you cowards."

"Coward?" Marybelle rushed forward and grabbed Brock by the shoulders. "You think you're some kind of hero, don't you?" She shook him. "Fuckin' Joseph Barlomie, back from the grave! Well that's just great, Brock, but Circe is a killer, don't you understand that? I don't know what her agenda is, but she doesn't give a fuck about Barlomie, or anyone in it, let alone the letter of the law."

"Fuck you, Marybelle," Brock said; he wasn't as tall as he used to be, but he was still a good head or two taller than her, and he glared down at her. "I bet you want to go over there and sign up with her, don't you. Is that it? Do you just want to give up? Well I don't. I won't!"

Wendy's grip on Brock's shoulder relaxed, and she rubbed his arms, pleading. "Brock, don't do it. Don't go. You won't be coming back. I know you think you're invincible, but you're not. You're mortal like the rest of us, sweetie. The best we can do is stick together, hunker down, and wait for help to arrive."

"The hell!" Brock pushed Marybelle from him, and ignored her cry as she fell down onto the sooty street.

He started walking toward the big door of the fort -- a corrugated sheet of steel they'd rigged up to a pulley, that could be opened and closed like a castle's portcullis -- and motioned to some of the guards at the gate.

"Let's go, boys; and bring your guns: we're gonna pay the Queen Bitch herself a visit, and see if she's dumb enough to leave us alone long enough for help to arrive."

Brock marched up to Circe's mansion with his armed posse in tow, a loaded shotgun in his hands.

He'd heard when Circe attacked the mayor she was even larger than she was the day of the parade -- when she knocked him out -- but he was willing to bet that a few twelve-gauge slugs would slow her down; though he did wish he had something like an elephant gun, or a howitzer.

The man sneered at the faces looking back at him from inside their cars; he yelled at the people standing in the endless lines. "You cowards!" He'd call. Or, "You're betraying your home!" For the most part, he was ignored. One time someone called back, "Fuck you, Brock Biggs!" But the man backed down when Brock jammed his shotgun in their face.

He was feeling pretty good by the time he reached the mansion's gates.

Circe was nowhere to be seen outside, and the women and men in uniform outside wouldn't let him in. Not until Brock and his group leveled their guns at them, and Brock demanded entry. That's when Brock saw Bethany, wearing a uniform like the rest of them.

Brock's lip curled as he looked her over. "So you've let Circe dress you up like the rest of her dolls, huh?"

Bethany chuckled; she didn't look mad or hurt, which only made Brock even more angry.

"I wear whatever Goddess Circe wants me to wear," and Bethany grinned, "When she wants me to wear anything at all."

"You fucking slut," Brock said, spitting on the ground in Bethany's direction.

Still, the young woman looked unfazed. In fact, it was Brock who was fazed: he wasn't used to staring across at Bethany, now the same height as him, eye-to-eye.

"What's the matter, Brock? Were you too impatient for Circe to come and step on you like a fucking bug? You can see her now, if you like."

"Yeah," Brock said, shrugging his shoulders and looking down the sights of the shotgun he held, keeping it trained on Bethany. "I would like that.

Bethany's grinned widened. "Okay, Brock." And then she held up a phone and spoke into it. Brock heard a voice quickly reply: it was Circe, saying she'd be right down.

The man swallowed.

He tried to ignore how Circe's uniformed stooges seemed to be clearing the area around him, asking for the townsfolk who were waiting in line to back up, and to, as they cried, "Make way for Goddess Circe!"

Brock tried to ignore it all, and instead watched the front doors of the mansion. His hands tightened around his gun. "Steady, boys," he murmured to the armed men at his sides.

The doors didn't budge. Instead, Brock noticed a series of shadows stretching over him and his posse. He started to turn just in time to see the man next to him fall forward with a scream and a sickening crunch; the man was bent backward, nearly folded in half, from the force of the kick that sent him hurtling forward.

All at once his men were screaming around him; someone's gun went off.

Brock turned all the way around, but couldn't bring his gun to bear soon enough. Bethany, now three times his size, was lowering her bare sole toward him with a lazy kick -- but it was all she needed. Her foot slammed into Brock's face and snapped his head backward. Somewhere in the back of his mind Brock registered his hands dropping his shotgun, and he knew then that he was in trouble. He landed hard against the pavement of the mansion's too-large steps, and before he could get up, Bethany's was over him; she stomped her foot down on his chest and grinned down at him.

"This is a good look for you, Brock," Bethany gloated with wide, wild eyes. "I like 'em small, sugar plum!"

Brock struggled to free himself from under the foot that held him, but Bethany's foot was too heavy, and her leg was too strong. Her feet were bare and her clothes were shredded from her sudden growth, but she didn't seem to mind the exposure.

"Get off me, you dumb bitch!" Brock cried.

Bethany's grin only widened; she slid her large foot upward and pressed it down on his face, smothering it, and holding him down with a great weight on his head and chest. The humiliating scent of Bethany's sweaty sole filled Brock's every breath, and he panicked beneath her foot.

He only saw glimpses of the world beyond from underneath her long, thick toes: the double doors of the mansion were opening up, and he saw -- and felt -- Circe step forward, now at least one hundred feet tall. She was a real titan; a colossus striding amongst bugs. Bethany herself must have been almost as tall as Circe when the giant first came to town.

Brock knew he'd lost, looking at the two of them.

"Please," he whimpered beneath Bethany's foot.

"We got 'em, Goddess," Bethany said happily.

Circe grinned down, and Brock could see her dark eyes glaring at him between Bethany's toes. "Good. Thank you for being dumb enough to come armed, Brock. I'm just so afraid for my life right now. And it's totally legal for us to kill you on my property. Speaking of: bring him and dispose of the others."

"No!" Brock's shout was smothered by Bethany's sole.

Her foot lifted off of him, but before he could scramble away from her, Bethany stooped down and hoisted him up, tossing him over her shoulder like a caveman's bride. As Bethany walked up the steps leading to the doors of the mansion, Brock was forced to watch, helpless, as the other giant women who ambushed his squad, towering in their barefeet and shredded uniforms, butchered his squad.

He watched one woman raise her foot and lower it just as quickly, splattering the head of one of his men like a watermelon. Another woman waited for his man to stand, only to beat him back down with a brutal series of punches that left the man limp and lifeless on the ground. One woman took great pleasure in lifting a man up and twisting his head around until it snapped and his body hung still; the last simply rest her sole on top of the remaining man's face, keeping it there as he flopped around, fighting for breath, until he suffocated.

And then the big doors to the mansion swung shut.

"Welcome to my home, Mr. Biggs," Circe said in the sudden quiet and peace of the mansion's huge interior.

It was clearly built for someone Circe's considerable size, and even Bethany looked tiny in looming hall. On the ground, Brock saw what looked like Barlomie, but in miniature. Tiny specks roamed around its streets, and with wide eyes Brock realized that they were townspeople, now the size of ants. Even at ten feet tall, Brock could have leveled whole blocks of the toy town with each step; a part of him very badly wanted to, for how they'd all betrayed him. Bethany's large bare feet narrowly missed the structures at the edges of the facsimile of Barlomie; Circe could have flattened the whole of the town without even noticing.

"Impressive, isn't it? You know, if you had come here and begged me, Brock, maybe I would have let you live."

Bethany followed Circe up a flight of stairs; the giant woman took several with each long stride, whereas Bethany had to stretch her legs wide to manage one at a time.

"You could have lived a new life here, in New Barlomie: my tiny little toy town. Hell, maybe I would have even let you be bigger than everyone else, just like you were. But you were too stubborn, weren't you?" Circe let out a laugh. "'Brock Biggs!' Is that even your real name?"

Brock swallowed. He struggled against Bethany as she carried him, kicking and punching at her. Bethany had to stop her climb up the stairs to steady him, which gave Brock hope.

"My, my," Circe tutted, "I was going to wait until we got to the bedroom for this, but I see you're eager to get on with it. Well, okay, Brock: let me show you just how powerless you are."

"Let" -- Brock kicked -- "me" -- Brock hit Bethany's big, broad back -- "GO!"

Bethany just giggled.

"No," Circe said.

And then, Brock felt something he hadn't felt in a long time: the man was getting smaller. At first he couldn't believe his eyes -- he thought Bethany was growing underneath him -- but no: his clothes were steadily becoming loose on his body, his shoes slipped from his feet, his watch fell from over his hand with a clatter against the marble surface of the stairs.

"Oh, Brock. I could have done this at any time. I'm glad I waited. It was tempting to just shrink you down to the size of an ant and let one of your pathetic followers crush you without even knowing, but then you up and brought yourself to me."

"What the fuck is this?" Brock yelled, fighting his ever-expanding clothes. Bethany's strong hands grabbed his bare flesh, and his pants fell away; she turned him upside-down and he squirmed against the shirt that was tangled around him. "You can't do this! Don't do this!"

"It was all too easy, Brock, but I'll admit you put on a good show. You did your best to move your money as I destroyed this town's businesses, and bought up all the land. It's all mine, now, and so are the banks: I don't even need your signature. I'm not taking your money from you. I'm simply throwing it away."

"No!" Brock cried. He felt the hot wetness of tears pouring down his cheeks. "NO!"

Bethany shook him around like a doll and his shirt fell from his body; she turned him around again, holding him out before him and leering down at his dwindling form in her hands as his boxers fell off. Brock was now completely naked, and Bethany only needed one hand to hold him.

"Follow, pet," Circe ordered.

"Yes, Goddess Circe," Bethany said, and continued her climb up the stairs.

At first, Brock struggled against her grip, beating on the large fingers that wrapped around him and kicking his legs inside her fist. Bethany weathered it all with a smile, her eyes flickering between where she was going, and looking down with amusement at Brock.

She lifted the squirming man up to her face. "We're going to fuck you, Brock, and then we're going to kill you. It's over."

Brock's jaw dropped at her words. He stopped fighting her. "Bethany," he said. "Bethany, please! Don't do this! Please!" The little man started stammering: "Oh god, don't do this. This isn't you! You can still turn back. Help me, Bethany. HELP ME! Please, you don't have to kill me. I'll leave town. I won't even tell the others! Oh god. Bethany: all those times before, at the -- at the QuikBurger -- it was always just a joke. I was just kidding around. You know I have a girlfriend!"

Bethany squeezed Brock in her fist, and his pathetic pleas were pressed out of him in a rushing exhale; he let out a high-pitched whine like a dog's chew toy.

Circe walked into her bedroom and stripped off the toga-like garment she wore; she slipped her feet out of her sandals.

Then the giant woman lowered herself onto her bed, which now looked to be the right size for her. Bethany threw her prey after her goddess, and he bounced across the mattress and rolled before coming to a stop. The naked little man had no time to run: Circe's massive sole lowered down onto him, pinning him beneath a canopy of fragrant flesh.

"I want you a little bigger, pet," Circe said, picking up her phone next to her bed.

"Thank you, Goddess Circe," a now-naked Bethany said, climbing up onto the edge of the bed at Circe's feet. She stooped over and pressed her lips to the tops of Circe's feet as the woman transferred funds to the account she kept for her, and Bethany swelled even larger in size until she was a little over half of Circe's height.

Bethany slipped her hand under Circe's foot and found the small lump that was what was left of Brock: to her, he didn't seem more than an inch tall. She grinned down at him pinched between her fingers; then she lowered him between her legs and rubbed Brock against her pussy as she scooted forward on the bed.

Circe brought her long legs in, her knees rising up around Bethany; the lounging goddess played with her cock as she watched her pet with amusement.

"How may I pleasure you, Goddess Circe?"

Circe rumbled with laughter. "Please me as you please yourself, pet."

Bethany bit her lip. She closed her eyes and kneeled there for a moment, simply enjoying how it felt to mash Brock against the soft folds of her pussy lips, and to stroke her clit with his tiny body. Then she stooped forward and dropped Brock on Circe's hips, just above her cock, which stood straight up, stiff.

Circe's hands moved away -- one went up to her breasts, and she tweaked her nipple; the other drifted around behind Bethany's lowered head, and stroked the young woman's hair -- and Bethany wrapped her smaller hands around Circe's rock-hard penis. She gently pulled down on Circe's cockflesh and exposed the red, glistening head, taking as much of it as she could in her mouth and teasing Circe's slit with the tip of her tongue. Circe moaned and pushed back into her sheets; the hand behind Bethany's head moved, and Circe's fingers curled into her head; Circe's hand forced Bethany's head downward a little, pushing more of her cock into her slave's mouth.

"Mm, good girl," Circe rumbled.

Bethany's supple tongue swirled around Circe's cockhead in circles, over and over, and the smaller woman opened her eyes and looked hungrily at Brock. The tiny man was looking up at her with fear in his eyes, and disgust at the lewd act playing out before him.

"What's the matter, stud? I thought this is what you're all about."

Brock stammered something, but Bethany couldn't hear him; she didn't care. She reached the the tiny man and pressed him against the hard flesh of Circe's cock; then she rose up on the bed and straddled the giant woman, lowering herself down onto her cock.

Bethany let out a moan. She barely registered Circe reaching for her phone and making her pet a little larger, so she would be able to fit; Bethany's moaned louder as she slid herself down onto Circe's cock, which completely filled her up. And there was the bump of Brock's body along the top of Circe's dick: Bethany rose and lowered on her goddess's cock, and Brock's body was in the perfect place to press against her clit on his way in and out.

"Oh! Oh, my Goddess!"

Circe was just as lost in arousal as she held onto Bethany's hips. She kept her pet where she was as she pumped her cock in and out of the smaller woman, biting her lip and pressing her head back into her pillows.

"Oh! Oh yeah! Fuck!"

Then Circe pulled out of Bethany, and sat her down on her hips.

"Goddess," Bethany murmured, surprised and out of breath. "What's wrong?"

Circe looked up at her wickedly. "He's still too big."

Bethany's eyes widened with excitement and she crawled around atop Circe, lowering her head so she could find Brock. There he was, glued to the flesh of Circe's cock from Bethany's fluids. As Bethany gazed down on the tiny man he became even smaller, dwindling from the inch that he was to the size of a speck.

Bethany pulled her lips into her mouth and and grabbed Circe's cock with one hand; she pulled down on the flesh, exposing the head of the woman's cock; then she used the thumb of her other hand to roll Brock upward along the slick flesh.

Brock was delirious. His body ached all over. Many of his bones were broken, and even little movement brought fresh pain. Then all at once there was pressure all over him, and he found himself tumbling upward along Circe's shaft. It was Bethany's thumb, he realized: he was so small that he easily fit beneath the pad of the young woman's digit -- a person who he used to tower over, three times her size. He tried to mutter pleas, but his jaw wouldn't follow his commands. It hung limply from his cheeks, dislocated. Brock was helpless as Bethany used just her thumb to slide him up the shaft of Circe's cock, as big around as a tower.

Brock felt his body get pushed over a lip of soft flesh, and then he found himself pressed against a different texture: the landscape was cherry red, and glistening with wetness. There were milky globs around him -- liquid from Circe's cock or Bethany's pussy, he couldn't tell.

There was a great sliding sound, and Brock managed to turn his injured head enough to see a wall of flesh sliding up toward him like an avalanche in reverse. Circe's foreskin rose up over him and crushed him against the flesh of her cockhead, and he heard the giant women beyond: their voices were deep and unintelligible to him -- it sounded like mountains having a conversation.

And then there was darkness, and pressure, and Bethany's excited moaning. Fluids flooded the pocket he was in and he felt the familiar motion of the two giants fucking once more. Brock struggled for air as the viscous liquid clogged his mouth and nose.

He heard Bethany cry out with pleasure, and more hot fluid gushed all around him, and Brock passed out.

###

When Brock regained consciousness he was somewhere else: the surface around him made him think he was in a big shallow bowl of some kind made from a clear material. Even as shallow as it was, he knew there was no way he could crawl out of it.

In the distance, through the glass walls of his new prison, he could see the mountainous form of Circe, lying naked on her side; closer and smaller in size was Bethany, who was turning and lowering an arm down toward where Brock squatted in what seemed like fluffy dirt, speckled black and white. No, Brock realized: ash.

The speck-sized man's eyes shot upward as Bethany's hand lowered. For a moment he feared she might scoop him up once more, and all the small hairs on his body stuck straight out. Then he saw the way Bethany's fingers were curled, and what she held: with a near-deafening WHUMP! the woman's giant hand flicked her giant cigarette against the lip of the ashtray Brock was trapped in, and covered him with flakes of debris. A glowing cluster of embers smacked Brock's shoulder and he crumpled to the ground, screaming, writhing around in the ash and wiping at his seared flesh.

He was left there to suffer, unnoticed. There was only his pain, and the distant rumbling the giants talking and laughing. He managed to pull himself up into a sitting position, and then convulsed forward as he vomited bile and blood. It was more of a sense than anything else: of great motion high above him.

On his hands and knees Brock watched as Bethany's long arm lowered down from the sky, swinging in an arc like a pendulum. His tearful eyes found the glowing tip of her cigarette, aimed right at him. Brock screamed Bethany's name as the cinder grew larger in his vision; his call of "no" was one long, stretched out wail as he could pick out all the little details of the burning nub, circular like a sun as it soared straight down at him; Brock's voice raised in pitch as terror transmuted his wail into a wordless shriek just before a wave of searing heat washed over him, and his body was crushed downward against the hard glass under a cylinder full of fire.

In the distance, Bethany giggled at something Circe said as her huge fingers casually smooshed her cigarette into the ashtray with a twist, then bobbed it against the glass to make sure it was out. It fell away to the side as she released it, leaving a pile of ash, and Brock's mangled, naked form -- his flesh was still burning away, revealing bone and charred meat.

###

Bethany snuggled up closer to Circe, resting her head on the much larger woman's soft shoulder.

"What's next, Goddess?"

Circe chuckled in the dimly lit room. "Today, we processed the last group of people in Barlomie; that's the whole town -- well, that isn't in that silly little fort Brock's followers erect in the square."

"The last stronghold of the resistance," Bethany mocked in a silly voice.

She looked up at Circe, whose eyes glittered with malevolence.

"Indeed it is. And, tonight, we kick it down..."

Bethany squealed as Circe's strong hands clamped down on her sides and hoisted her up; she moaned as Circe's tongue found her lips and traced wet little circles around her clit.

"...And you finally get to watch, my pet."

"Oh Goddess!"

Marybelle refused to leave the wall.

With every passing hour she watched for any sign that Brock was coming back to the fort. In the distance, the last of the lines were trailing into Circe's mansions, like ants bringing home food. People went into the structure's doors and never came out; their cars were driven around to the back of the abode; she'd seen trucks take trailers of cars off by the dozen -- they'd been living every day.

Since Brock left, the situation in the fort had steadily grown worse. They had their food, and their weapons -- Marybelle clutched a bolt-action rifle to her chest -- but everyone started getting smaller. It was only an inch or two at first, but it didn't stop, and the inches started to add up. Marybelle herself was down to four feet in height, and she was one of the tallest people left in the fort. It was getting to the point where people couldn't lift their guns anymore, and were left with pipes or frying pans or bats -- and it was getting harder for some to even heft those.

When the doors to Circe's mansion did finally open up, Marybelle was stunned by what she saw: it was Circe herself, standing there in a black one-piece outfit like a bodysuit, boots on her feet, her hair pulled up in a loose ponytail. On the ground around the woman an army was marching out from the mansion, their weapons glinting in the failing light of dusk. Circe stood there with her hands on her hips, and then marched along behind her army.

They were coming right for the fort; they had to be.

Marybelle's eyes desperately scanned for Brock, but of course he would have been too small at that distance to make out.

She quickly went over by the gate and rang the fort's warning bell.

"Here they come!" She screamed it out as loud as she could. "Circe's coming! She's on her way with a whole goddamn army!"

Panicked shouts rose up in the fort; other bells clanged as everyone scrambled to arm themselves, and wake up anyone who was asleep, and man the walls.

Marybelle saw, with growing worry, that no one else around her had a gun.

She stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the rest of the defenders on the wall, and watched Circe's approach. The giant woman's army spread out across the ruins of what was left of the buildings that surrounded the square; most of them had been demolished by Circe's crews. At the head of the army was another giant, Marybelle saw; a woman she felt she recognized, but it was hard to tell. It was tempting to take a shot at her, but Marybelle didn't want to doom the fort by firing a shot too soon.

For a while, there was nothing but the cool air, and the distant sun sinking down beyond the horizon, and a chilly silence.

Finally, the giant woman took one long step, standing before her army and looking down on the defenders. She must have been a hundred feet tall or more, Marybelle thought with terror.

Circe's lips curled up at the corners. "Brock is dead," she announced loudly, and then she swung one leg forward and kicked down the door to the makeshift fort.

Marybelle gripped her rifle tight to her chest as she watched the larger supporters of Circe's army charge between the giant's legs and toward the opened gate with a chaotic chorus of battle yells.

"Here they come!" Someone cried.

The person next to her nudged her, wide-eyed; the man was nearly half as tall as Marybelle. "Shoot them! Shoot them!" He urged.

Marybelle had never fired a gun before. She held the rifle to her shoulder and aimed down the sights, pulling on the trigger; the rifle drifted upward as she tugged, and she sent a round over the heads of the charging army. With a cry she fought the bolt of the gun, popping out the spent brass and digging in her pocket for another shell.

The cry of the army was full of bloodlust as the first of the soldiers, giants compared to Marybelle's compatriots, charged through the gate and knocked the smaller defenders with ease. They shot them dead with pistols and caved their heads in with bats; they trampled crawling, crying townsfolk beneath their feet as they surged forward.

Marybelle glanced back up at Circe more out of fear than anything else. It was a reflex. She was afraid of Circe in the same way she might worry about a falling tree, hoping that it wouldn't come down right on top of her. Circe wasn't paying her any mind, however, or any of them: the towering woman was half-stripped out of her bodysuit, and playing with a breast with one hand as she pushed the rest of it down with the other.

Marybelle watched the lewd display, mouth agape, rifle clutched back to her chest. She heard her name screamed nearby and quickly turned to see a man she knew getting pushed to the ground by a woman much bigger than him. "Shoot her," the man screamed, and too late Marybelle remembered the rifle she held, and the makeshift weapons most of her smaller comrade's wielded.

The attacker was larger than even Marybelle by half again, and the blond shrank back as the giant swung a steel pole over her head; she brought it down onto the man's head with a squishy thunk and grinned cruelly as his brains splattered up out of his shattered skull. Marybelle was relieved when the woman didn't look over and see her, and instead charged deeper into the fort.

The wall was mostly abandoned already, but Marybelle stayed to finish reloading her rifle. The sounds of battle were all around her; it sounded like one-sided carnage.

Another loud crashing noise drew Marybelle's attention over toward Circe; the giant had just pulled off one of her boots, and was slipping off the other. She tossed it casually forward with a smirk, and Marybelle watched the bus-sized boot slam down onto a group of fleeing defenders and flopped to the side, leaving their crushed, twitching bodies to be trampled by those who retreated, and the attackers who were running the townsfolk down and beating them to the ground.

Marybelle gritted her teeth and aimed up at Circe, who was now completely nude. She gazed along the top of the old rifle, and aimed for the towering woman's head and fired. If she hit or -- or if Circe even noticed the bullet -- the giant made no notice of it, standing there, fondling her tits with one hand and playing with her bared cock with the other, moaning as she watched the carnage down below her. Marybelle's eyes widened at the sight of Circe's colossal penis, but she didn't have more than a second to gawk.

Marybelle slammed the bolt-action lever forward and back and flinched away from the ejecting brass, she was faster reloading the rifle this time, and aimed again for a larger target: Circe's breasts. She squeezed the trigger and the rifle kicked her back and Marybelle looked up at Circe expectantly, hoping for a wound, or even simply a little irritation. Nothing happened.

Circe let out a booming laugh, but not at Marybelle; she didn't notice the woman, who was the last person standing on the walls of the ramshackle fort. No one seemed to see her up there; all of Circe's minions were busy hacking apart anyone who resisted or ran, rounding up those who surrendered, and sometimes chopping them to bits or smashing them into jelly, too. Circe, her tan body a darker brown in the failing sunset, swung a leg forward and Marybelle screamed as the woman's huge foot crashed down right on the wall, sending her tumbling down in a shower of debris. She heard metal whine and wood splinter and stone shatter beneath the giant's foot, and Circe laughed all the same high above. Marybelle cowered in the dirt, the rifle gone from her hands and lost somewhere in the collapses ruin. A little voice inside her told her to be happy she was still alive, but her mouth was wide open in a scream as she clutched her head and shook, curled in a ball, hoping for the nightmare to end.

Screams and shrieks in death and Circe's laughter filled her ears, even as she covered them with her hard-pressed palms.

She looked deeper into the fort just to see a small cluster of defenders cowering together, surrounded by some of Circe's brutal followers. There were people in the cluster she recognized; some were friends, and they were all at least neighbors. One woman in particular, Wendy, was someone who Marybelle played bridge with every month for several years.

All the terrified stragglers were suddenly painted dark in shadow. Then they all disappeared -- along with one member of Circe's gang, even -- disappeared under the giant woman's big brown foot, instantly crushed flat. Circe's too-large foot slid side-to-side, as if she were putting out a cigarette.

"This battle is over," Circe's powerful voice intoned. "Round up whoever is left. Kill whoever won't come. Just because I'm so nice, anyone who comes willingly will have a chance at a fresh start in New Barlomie."

Marybelle watched from the ground as Circe turned and looked around her, scanning the carnage at her feet with a pleased expression. This must be how an ant in the grass feels, the relatively tiny woman mused darkly; then her breath caught in her throat as Circe looked right at her; the giant smirked.

"Well, well, well," Circe tutted, "you survived, did you?"

And this is how I'll die, Marybelle imagined, as Circe turned to face her. One of the giant's legs lifted, and Circe lifted her sole over Marybelle -- another view an ant would see, she thought. Stuck to Circe's debris-strewn sole were bodies and, to Marybelle's horror, she could recognize Wendy's flattened and mangled body. Circe's sole started lowering, and Marybelle closed her eyes and waited for the end.

There was a crash next to her, and the world beneath her shook violently. But she was still alive, and there was no pain. Marybelle didn't want to, but she was forced to open her eyes and look up at Circe's looming form: the giant was stooped over and reaching down for her. Marybelle screamed, squirming in the wreckage that surrounded her, but Circe's giant fingers forced her to curl around the pad of the giant's huge thumb and then all at once she was being hoisted into the air.

Circe's hand rose until Marybelle found herself before the woman's brilliantly glittering eyes. She saw no mercy there, and felt Circe's fingertips squeeze possessively around her. "You were Brock's lover, right? It's hard to tell. All you dumb little white blond bitches look the same. But even still," and Marybelle's eyes widened as she felt herself moving toward the giant's face -- her eyes widened even more when she saw herself steered toward Circe's smirking lips -- and Circe kissed her, pressing her into the warm, supple flesh, "you're forgiven."

The woman dreamed that someone rang her doorbell. She put down the tablet she was messing around on and stood, excited to see who it was. As she walked along the lengthy hallway in her big, fine house, something seemed off; there was something wrong, but she couldn't tell what. The walk seemed to stretch on forever, and even though she could see the door before her -- no further than it should be -- her legs didn't take her any closer. Her legs were heavy, and moved with great effort, as if the air around them had turned to molasses.

The distant door and the hallway around her started to disappear into a fog.

The doorbell sounded again, but this time it was far too long: deafening, painful. The woman hunkered down and pressed her hands to the side of her head, screaming.

Then Marybelle woke up the way she did almost every morning for the last several years: to the rhythmic sound of distant thunder, coming closer with each ominous booom, booom, booom!

The bed shook beneath her; the pictures on her walls -- even fastened as they were with a screw in each corner rather than a nail to hang on -- rattled along with anything else she had in her room that wasn't bolted down or secured in some way.

Marybelle covered her head with her pillow, but it was no use. That, and she knew she couldn't hide: like everyone else in New Barlomie, Marybelle was under orders to go out to the small nook that served as her balcony and greet her goddess.

So that's what she did.

Marybelle shook her head, trying to clear the sleep that still gripped her mind. It was far too tempted to go back to her bed and fall back asleep; really, Marybelle liked being asleep more than being awake. New Barlomie wasn't the worst place to live, but her existence was a tireless and demeaning one. When she wasn't sorting through deliveries -- for food and supplies for the town -- she was practicing for the weekly "We Love Our Goddess" celebrations, or hoping Goddess Circe's pet Bethany didn't choose her as a toy for the evening.

On the horizon of the foyer, Marybelle saw the stairs that Circe was descending from. The tan giant wore a luxurious orange robe about her, and her feet were bare. She had her hair up in a messy bun, as she often did in the morning. There was another deafening ring of the doorbell, and Marybelle nearly cried out; others did, and she saw that the balconies around her were now populated -- those on the first floor came out to the street, as the denizens of Barlomie waited for Circe to notice them, and greet them, and release them from attention. Sometimes, this took hours.

Marybelle held onto the rail of her glorified balcony, really just a nook, and steadied herself as Circe rose high and higher as she approached, her bare feet slapping noisily over the marble floor of the foyer. Marybelle's mind was taken back to the first time she saw the woman, from down the street, before the parade. How beautiful she looked then, and how normal she looked now.

Then, Marybelle saw the woman as a giant. Now, even though Circe was a genuine titan of a person, Marybelle felt more like a piece of dust on the floor. She barely felt human; she rarely did anything other than what she was supposed to do, and it'd been a long time since she'd had a selfish thought. She hadn't looked in a mirror for years -- not that she had one in her small apartment.

Marybelle's eyes lazily tracked Circe's largening form. The woman didn't glance down at the town, which meant it would probably be a long morning standing on the balcony. Marybelle could feel every step the giant took as they shook her legs from the soles upward.

Her eyes widened a little bit more. Typically Circe walked on a path that would take her down the side of the room, as she headed toward the kitchen to get her morning cup of coffee -- if Bethany hadn't stomped through earlier to fetch it to her.

Today, to answer the door, Circe was heading straight toward the town.

The closer she loomed, the more fear Marybelle felt.

No, Marybelle reassured herself, there's no way-

Worried cries rose up from the crowd gathered to greet the goddess, and even Marybelle found a startled sound force its way out of her. Circe's giant form was passing directly overhead, and she wasn't looking down.

Far above, her face seemingly in the heavens, Circe raised a hand to her face to cover her mouth as she yawned. In the next moment, the colossal sole of her foot rose into the air, sliding over the little town of Barlomie like a tan, wrinkled sky of flesh.

Marybelle's eyes widened at the sight of it. Circe often didn't watch her step, and more than once she'd seen the titan's sole soar above the town. But now it was lowering on a path that would see it crashing down directly atop Barlomie.

"No," Marybelle whispered. "Look down," she begged the air. "Oh lord, oh please, Goddess Circe, look down!"

The sky darkened as the sole fell with speed, like a meteor. Marybelle's pleas turned into a wordless scream as she threw up her hands. Down at the edge of town, Circe's heel slammed down and a cloud of debris flew up; a chorus of screams were silenced; the whole world shook violently around Marybelle and she was thrown painfully into the wall of her house as the rest of the tan-colored fleshed fell toward her.

"NO!" Marybelle screamed with terror.

She was thrown to the ground of her nook, her body singing with pain; down the street she could see how Circe's foot demolished and crushed everything in its path -- it was like the end of the world, with New Barlomie getting bulldozed in an instant -- and Marybelle squeezed her eyes closed and shrieked as she felt felt a sudden heat fill the air, as well as a cloying, salty scent, and then an immense weight pressed down all over her and she was rushing downward as the building around her collapsed.

Marybelle's last moments were of the terrible knowledge of how it felt for her body to be completely and ruthlessly flattened, and what it was like to feel her skull explode in all directions as her brain screamed a warning that would go ignored.

###

Circe stopped. She felt a series of crackles beneath her foot where she'd stepped last, as if she'd just walked on someone's sand castle, unnoticed. The woman looked down, lifting her leg a little, and saw what it was she stepped on.

In the space where New Barlomie occupied in the center of her foyer was her footprint.

Circe's eyes widened a little at the sight, and she tugged her ankle up with a hand, inspecting her sole. It was covered with a fine layer of dust, and littered with specks of red.

And just like that, with one step, New Barlomie was gone, and everyone who had lived there was dead.

With a satisfied grin, Circe brushed a hand across her sole, and watched the fragments of the town fall away from it: the dust and debris, and tiny, twisted, speck-like bodies rained from her flesh in the wake of her swipe; the people were smaller than ants, and died like them.

Down below her, all that was left of the town -- that is to say, nothing -- was the imprint of her perfect foot. She knelt down over it and admired the way she'd flattened absolutely everything. Her sharp eyes saw not a single movement: thousands dead with one careless step.

The doorbell rang again, urging her.

Circe hopped back up to her feet and went to go get it, calling, "Be right there!"

Traces of dust and dirt and the little mangled specks tracked on the black marble floor as Circe went to her door.

If she turned and looked, she wouldn't have noticed any of it: the debris blended in, or was too small to be visible.

Her slave Bethany would take care of the footprint-cratered town -- maybe she'd turn it into one of her art pieces, as the girl had taken to creating miniature vistas using the ruins of the old town -- and her robotic vacuum would remove any other trace that Barlomie ever existed.