The Envoy

The envoy looked up the Goddess as she sat on her throne, and tried his best to stop his legs from shaking. Cybele towered above him, bright sunlight warming her perfect skin. It was hard to believe she was a truly a woman, and not some shapely Colossus statue in a crimson dress. The throne was as big as a castle, and Cybele was every bit as immense. She was beautiful, a true Roman goddess, with dark hair and olive skin. Her thick curves were barely contained by her dress, and her huge breasts spilled over the top of her blouse. The goddess didn’t bother to look at the envoy, though he knew that she was aware of his presence. Instead she looked out towards the arena. There was a steely look on her beautiful face that sent chills running through his spine. He was an experienced speaker and a talented envoy, yet in front of her he could hardly work up the nerve to say a single word. He knew that she wouldn’t like what he was going to say.

“Y-Your-your grace,” he said, trying to compose himself. He spoke loudly, for although this section of the Coliseum was strangely quiet, some of the clamor from below seeped through. “Your Grace… Your Grace, Your Goddess, your beauty and glory, I come before you, though I am not worthy of your attention. Me and my fellow envoys represent the humble nations of Britannia, a nation which has long pledged their loyalty to Rome.” They envoy hadn’t come alone: though he represented the whole of Britannia, ten other representatives, representing specific districts, stood behind him.

For a moment the envoy forgot his words. He looked around for a moment, taking in the glory of the scene in front of him. They were in a special throne room on the highest level of the arena, reserved for the Empress to use during the games. Sunset poured through the open-air room, reflecting off the dark iron of the throne. The long room looked narrow compared to the goddess, yet the envoy realized that it was wider than any building he had stepped foot in until today. It had no ceiling, no roof, yet huge stone columns stretched up along the walls, holding up nothing in particular. Cybele, tall and curvaceous and beautiful in her red dress, sat in an iron throne as immense and overwhelming as she was.

Flanking the sides of the long and narrow room were dozens of Queen’s Guards, giant, steely-eyed women in skimpy steel cuirasses and red capes. Their scant armor was designed more for showing off their athletic builds than protecting them in battle. The Queen’s Guard was mostly ceremonial, as Cybele was more than capable of taking care of herself, but all of her guardswomen were extremely capable soldiers. The steel cuirasses provided some protection to their abdomen, leaving their arms, chest and upper legs completely exposed. They were lined up in order of size: the shortest guards, standing barely forty feet high, were near the entrance, while the tallest, near the throne, stood just over fifty. The tallest guards barely came up past Cybele’s waist.

Around the base of the throne were a dozen male slaves, quietly lotioning Cybele’s feet or painting her toenails. Up above, he realized, there were dozens of slaves sitting on the throne’s wide armrests. These slaves simply stood there apprehensively, as if they were waiting to perform an unpleasant duty. Without looking down at the envoy, Cybele spoke two words: “Come closer.” Though her tone was understated, there was a powerful command to her voice, which boomed and echoed through the narrow room. The envoy’s mind raced as he wondered what Cybele was thinking.

The envoy walked towards the goddess, stopping just in front of her feet. The other envoys followed behind him. He realized how small he was next to her: at six foot one, he barely stood as high as her ankle. Her feet, though not large in proportion, were as long as draft horses, her legs stretching up like redwoods under her long dress. He stared for a moment at her feet, taking in just how big they were. She could crush all of us in a single step, he thought.

Cybele said a single word: “Speak.” Her voice was commanding, but it was something more than that. It was as if she somehow knew exactly what the envoy planned to say, and was displeased by it. The empress lifted the front of her huge feet off the ground. It was a gesture that should have been harmless, yet her immense size made it threatening. The slaves rushed underneath, and started to rub and lotion the bottom of her feet.

The envoy took a moment to gather his thoughts before he began. “Your Grace and Glory, Britannia has served the Empire with unfailing loyalty. We have dedicated our churches to the adoration of your grace, the Empress and one true Goddess. We have sent you troops to aid you in battle, tens of thousands of men, each of them proud and strong warriors. We have ended our civil wars at your behest, for they weakened us and made us less able to serve the Empire. And we have sent gifts of tribute each week, as you asked, generous gifts of gold and beasts and men.”

“And?” said the goddess, with barely veiled anger in her voice.

“Rome has brought great fortune to Britannia, and nothing would please us more than to show our thanks. Yet we are a small nation, and not a rich one. We send you heavy shipments of gold, though our own reserves are running short. We give Rome countless oxen and cattle, though in much of Britannia our own people are starving. And you ask for men—”

Before the envoy could finish his sentence, Cybele’s feet slammed down against the floor. Her heavy feet crushed the dozen slaves who had toiled beneath her with a sickening crunch. In an instant Cybele’s powerful feet crushed the slaves into goo. A thick splat of blood hit the envoy’s forehead. Streams of crimson liquid slowly ran between Cybele’s toes and trailed along the stone floor. A dozen lives ended, thought the envoy fearfully, because of a whim.

“Yes, I ask for men.” Cybele spoke calmly, even politely, as if nothing had happened. “I ask for men, and gold, and food, for I am a Goddess, and you are my subjects, and you will serve me however you can. Rome has brought you great blessings over this last century. All I ask for in return from Britannia are a few meager gifts of tribute. Guards, bring the envoys to me. Set them down where they’ll be more comfortable.”

The two Queen’s Guards nearest to the throne responded. Each of them stood over fifty feet tall. They were much alike: long, dark hair, athletic builds. Each was attractive without quite being beautiful, and each had the same air of ruthless, dispassionate confidence. They walked towards the envoys with long strides, shaking the ground with their steps. One of them bent down in front of the envoy, looking down at him, her pretty face devoid of any obvious emotion. Soon the envoy found himself enclosed in hands that were larger than his body. The female guard lifted him up into the air. A moment later, the envoy felt the guard’s fingers opening up, dropping him above the Goddess’ lap.

He fell onto the softness of Cybele’s thigh, and felt himself rolling into the center of her lap, the fabric of her dress bouncing him like a trampoline. The Queen’s Guards dropped the other representatives onto her, and they rolled one by one onto the dress’ fabric, suspended between her thighs. Cybele lowered her knees. Suddenly, the envoy felt himself rolling head over heels towards the edge of the shelf formed by Cybele’s huge dress. It was a long fall to the ground below. Then, as he was just about to roll off the edge, he felt himself suddenly stopping as Cybele raised her legs.

For the first time, Cybele looked down at the envoy. “You really ought to be more careful,” she said with a tone of cruel mock-concern that was somehow almost convincing. “Come closer.” With that she rose her legs back into the air, sending the envoy and his crew rollicking towards onto her lap. They came to a rest near her crotch, nestled between her thighs. “Now what,” said Cybele, “did you want to tell me?”

He stood up as best as he could on the fabric of her dress, faltering at first before regaining his balance. “Your glory, each week for the past thirty-eight years, with a single exception, the nation of Britannia has sent you one thousand men as a tribute. Each of the thousand men is in good health, as you specified, no younger than eighteen and no older than thirty five. They’re rounded up, chained, and shipped in carts, all the way to Rome. Some of these men were willing volunteers who decided to sacrifice themselves to you. Most were criminals, vagabonds, the like, undesirables. And until recently, we rarely needed to look beyond our prisons to find one thousand men. But the recent famines have hurt our numbers, and it's been difficult to find enough men. We’ve had to round up men in the streets, forcing innocent men into the wagons at sword-point. And all those young men, simply gone… it’s been a terrible drain on our resources. We don’t have enough men to work the fields, enough to man our defenses. And all those innocent lives…”

“So?” There was something almost seductive about the way she spoke that word. Cybele reached her right hand beside the throne’s armrest, where dozens of loincloth-clad slaves stood waiting. In an instant, the envoy realized what they slaves were waiting for. He watched as Cybele reached out to pick up a single slave, a man who stood no taller than the queen’s middle finger. Cybele wrapped her fingers around the slave with an elegant motion. Then, without bothering to look at her food, she leaned back her head and dropped the slave into her mouth. She swallowed him as if it were nothing.

Cybele looked down at the envoy. He looked back up at her, gazing past her mountainous breasts. “Well?” Her ever-shifting voice seemed almost caring now. “Do the people of Britannia believe my tributes are too onerous? Too burdensome?”

With that, she reached her arm back over to the armrest, this time with a carelessness to her motions. As she reached her arm out, her arm shoved a few slaves off the side of the armrest, sending them plummeting forty feet to a hard stone floor. Cybele barely seemed to notice their screams, let alone care. This time Cybele didn’t pick up a single slave, but a small handful: it was difficult to tell whether it was three or four of them. She dropped them into her mouth, one after another, and swallowed. The envoy realized this was no meal for her; these men were mere snacks.

“Speak, envoy.”

It took the envoy a moment to gather the courage. “Your grace, I have been tasked by the great houses of Britannia to ask a simple request: that you allow us to send you fewer men in tribute, at least until the famine ceases. I believe it is a reasonable request, and I—“

“And this is a matter for an envoy, not a goddess, to decide?”

“Your Grace, I—“

“You peon, I am Empress of Rome and the only living Goddess on this earth. It is my place to demand whatever I wish from my worshippers, and your duty to submit to it. Or do you aim to dishonor me?”

“No, your Grace, I only aim to ease our peoples’ burden—“

“‘To ease your burden.’ As if it is a burden, and not an honor, to sacrifice your men to me. Why are these Britons so unwilling to sacrifice themselves? Is Britannia a nation of atheists and idol worshippers, and if it is, why shouldn’t I cleanse its filth from this earth? Or are you simply unwilling to sacrifice for me?”

The envoy felt fear and rage building up inside of him. Suddenly, he found himself yelling out, “They fear you!”

Cybele took a moment to respond. “They fear me?” she said with bemusement. “Why do they fear me?”

“There are stories…”

“Stories? What kind of stories? Tell me.”

“Stories about what you—what your Grace does… what happens to the tributes…”

“Go on.”

“…They say that every man sent to your Grace as a tribute…dies.”

“All men die. But go on.”

“…They say that your Grace devours her tributes. That you can eat ten thousand in a single day. That you swallow most of them whole, so the acids of your stomach burn through men’s skin while they still live.”

“And?”

“…they say that you like to… crush the men, as you did to those slaves earlier. Under foot. And under your posterior. And between your… your…”

“My what?”

“Between your… breasts.”

“Oh?” She said, fidgeting her arms. The motion made her enormous breasts heave and shake in her blouse. “Do go on. Tell me all about the rest of these rumors.”

“Some of these acts are improper to speak of in front of any lady, let alone a goddess like your Grace.”

“Please. You may speak freely. In fact, I insist.”

“They say… The rumors say that you insert men into your… your womanhood. And some say… but this is truly unbelievable… some say that your womanhood somehow… devours men, sucking them up, as if it were a beast.”

“What stories,” she said with a twisted smile. “And yet Britannia’s men are reluctant to sacrifice themselves to me? With stories like that, you’d think they’d be all too eager.”

“They have not gazed upon the beauty of your grace, I’m afraid.”

“But you and your friends now have.”

“Yes.”

“Envoy,” she said, pausing for a moment to toss a slave into her mouth. She swallowed, then continued on. “You mentioned earlier that Britannia has always delivered their tributes… with a single exception, some twenty years ago. Do you remember what happened when Britannia failed to pay their full tribute?”

“…Of course, your grace. You sent an army to Britannia, an army of women, giant women, some nearly as tall as yourself. You sent them to Yorkshire. I had grown up in Yorkshire. I wasn’t there at the time, but I heard the stories. Immense women, some eighty feet tall, crushed homes and churches like they were mere toys. Men and women were crushed underfoot like insects. Few survived, and there was nothing left of the city. I lost my father, my mother, my younger brother… Everyone I had ever truly known. Gone. Crushed into the dirt. Just like that.”

“You speak as if my actions were unjust? You dare to question my actions? Britannia did not give me what was rightfully mine, so I took it, and then some. Every man and woman in that city was delivered as a blood sacrifice unto me. There is no higher honor for such people. Though I admit, I enjoy the sacrifices far more when I take them myself. I’m disheartened to learn that your people have so little love for me. That they would ask me to change my mind, as if learning the hardships of some pathetic little men would assuage my desires. I have learned much for our conversation.

‘I’ve learned that the people of Britannia are a wretched lot of heathens and atheists. I’ve learned that Britannia has no loyalty to me. Perhaps it would be a mercy to crush your pathetic nation, if you are so unworthy. I could send my legions in. I could have Britannia burnt to the ground in a week.

‘But I can be a merciful goddess. I will not destroy the people of Britannia. But changes will be made. Atheism and heathenism will be outlawed, punishable by death. A woman of my choosing will be instated as Governess of Britannia, to rule in my honor as she sees fit. You will bow to her every whim as you would mine. As punishment for your nation’s insolence, and for having the impudence to speak with me as you did, I demand a larger tribute. Britannia’s tribute will be increased to two thousand men each week, for me to crush and devour as I please. The new Governess will see to it that you do not fail.

‘You look displeased, envoy. Does something about my orders upset you? Ah, perhaps it’s because I forgot the last part of my orders. I’m taking you and your compatriots as an additional tribute.”

“No… Please… but… your Grace, who will deliver the message?”

“Rome has no shortage of couriers, and it’s not as if it would be difficult to relay a message. You know, those rumors you spoke of weren’t so far off,” she said, taking one of the representatives in her hand. He was a large one, tall and stout with a great beard, yet she picked him up as if he weighed nothing. “I like to kill men. I like to eat them, to crush them, to use them for my fulfillment. It… pleases me greatly,” she said, speaking slowly, savoring each word as if it was a delicacy. “Some say it’s the spice that gives women such desires. Surely that’s part of it. But there’s another reason. I’m a Goddess. And a goddess requires worship.”

She set him between her knees. She extended her feet forward. He rolled down her dress, between her legs. The dress came to an end about ten feet off the ground, and from there he fell. He hit the ground with a thud, landing hard on his side. The man found himself unable to move, unable to speak, unable to scream. Cybele moved her huge foot on top of him, slowly, almost playfully, before pinning him down, with the man’s head under her little toe, and his feet partway towards her heel. The man felt her foot pushing down on him.

“I think I’ll have a little fun with you. It feels sooo good,” she said, “taking a man’s pathetic little body and crushing it under my feet. It’s so easy. Just a little pressure at first. You feel his body start to give way. Then you push a little more, then a little more…” she pushed down ever so slightly on her heel, and the flesh of the man’s legs was pinched against the ground. A little more, and he felt his breaking, his pelvis shattering. And yet somehow, he never screamed.

She pushed down harder with her foot, collapsing his ribcage, yet not yet killing them. “Even my little toe is bigger than your head. I could crush your tiny, pathetic head with my little toe.” She pressed her toe against his head. Her toe pressed down against him, softly at first. “I will accept your offering.” Suddenly she pushed down as hard as she could. His head collapsed instantly under the pressure, cracking like a watermelon, and spilling blood and brain onto the stone floor.

“My feet have been worshipped enough for now. But these… these need some devotion,” Cybele said as her hands cupped the bottom of her immense breasts. She opened the top of her blouse. Her huge, full breasts spilled over her dark velvet bra. “All these tedious petitioners, it’s just been one after another… My breasts haven’t gotten enough worship lately.” She grabbed another one of the representatives, this one short and thin, and nestled him between her huge breasts. Then, she reached up onto the armrest and grabbed a few slaves with her right hand, again dropping them onto her breasts. She pushed them between her ample cleavage, nudging them with a delicate touch. She pushed her hands against the sides of her breasts. Her hands pushed her huge breasts together, and lifted them upward until the top of her breasts almost reached her chin.

The envoy watched his compatriot, whose head just barely rose above her cleavage, reaching his hands into the air in an attempt to climb upward. After a moment, the man stopped fighting. His head, then his arms, were soon enveloped by her pillowy breasts. She pushed harder, squeezing her gigantic breasts together until it looked almost painful. Cybele pushed together as hard as she could. “So pathetic, so weak. Feel how powerful my tits are. Worship… my… tits!” A sickening crunch. Crimson blood splattered onto her breasts. She let go of her breasts slowly. As her breasts lowered and separated, the crushed bodies of the men became visible, though they could hardly be recognized as such. They were little more than blood-red goo splattered onto her breasts. She rolled her head back, a look of deep satisfaction on her face.

The envoy looked behind him, and realized that only three of his compatriots remained. He looked back up at Cybele. “I feel like a goddess,” she said, “but body worship always makes me feel so hungry.” The envoy stood and watched as Cybele’s arm came down. She wrapped her long fingers around all three of them, picking them up and lifting them above her head. Tilting her head back, she opened her mouth and dropped one in. He managed to climb partway out of her mouth before Cybele’s long tongue wrapped around him and pulled him in. She swallowed. She dropped the second one into her mouth and swallowed greedily. The third she gently lowered down between her lips. He slid slowly between her partway-opened lips, then along her tongue. Cybele curled her head back and swallowed.

Cybele reached over and picked up the envoy, lifting him up so she could see him better. “Don’t feel apprehensive about the deaths of your comrades. Each of these men accepted their fate before they died. They offered themselves in sacrifice to me, one way or another.” She looked into his eyes. “I lost my scribe earlier today,” she said. She glanced down at her breasts with a look of mock-embarrassment. “I get a little… careless sometimes. You belong to me now, and I’m going to crush you between my tits. You’d look nice as a blood splatter between my cleavage, wouldn’t you?”

She smiled at him. “I could do it now. Take you as a tribute, feel your warm blood running between my cleavage. But you have another choice. You could become my new scribe. Your Latin is impeccable for a foreigner. I can tell from your speech that you’re a man of letters and a polyglot. I can use you. You’ll still be mine,” she said, closing her blouse. She set the scribe down between her cleavage. “Sooner or later I’ll sacrifice you to myself. But until that day, you can serve me. As a slave, and as a scribe.”

He hesitated for a moment. He tried to look up at her, but all he could see was the underside of her chin, her long neck, and the mountainous breasts that he rested between. “I’ll do it. I’ll be your slave.”

“Good. You’ll be of service to your goddess. What’s your name, slave?”

“Robert.”

“Robert? A strange name, but it will do. I take it you have a quill and some paper on you? Delegates from Greece and Seres are waiting to speak to me. Just write down what they say. And don’t make any mistakes,” she said, pushing her breasts together. Her cleavage enveloped Robert, pressing against his body and face, suffocating him. He turned his head to the side so he could breathe. “Or else. Oh, and your first order of Business? I have an idea for the new governess of Britain. Write down this name: Scarlett.”