Skip to content

Size Erotica: Do for One

“By turns sweet, sexy, and intense, this story was cathartic. Clearly it was written in the moment… from a very personal place and very real struggle. The intimacy on display was beautiful.”


I’m proud to share “Do for One,” my entry for the My Heaven October 20 SizeRiot contest, hosted by the hardworking and talented Aborigen-gts​. As this was the final chapter for SizeRiot, a quarterly event that meant so much to me as a writer and size kink enthusiast, I worked especially hard to give it my best effort.

Given the hellacious year we’ve all endured, and the ways trauma can influence our sexuality, I was not able to bring myself to write about my ideal, quintessential size scenario like the contest asked us to. However, I am proud that I did rise to the occasion and craft a love story that “that twinges the heartstrings,” and a size story that makes me “feel less alone.” Thank you, Aborigen, for bringing us all full circle back to our roots, and for encouraging us to find safe havens for our minds, hearts, and bodies, even in a time of fear, grief, and isolation.


“Deeply personal”

As many readers guessed, this story comes from a deeply personal place. Facets of me and both my partners shine through in both characters. Though I changed details, the work is similar to my own career.

And although I do not actually change size like Amy, my mind gives me the sensory input that makes it feel like I am smaller or larger than reality. As with many forms of neurodivergence, some days it’s fine, some days it’s fun, some days it’s awful, and if 2020 was any indication, quarantine definitely makes it harder. If any of this sounds familiar, or if Amy’s experiences speak to you on a personal level, then you can read more about size dysmorphia in my origin story.


Do try this at home

If you feel an emotional release from this scene and are wondering if you could re-create Amy’s catharsis at home, I’m going to encourage you to read the article I wrote in July, Sexual Brakes, Trauma, & Kink in the Burning 20s.

If you’re not interested in the neuroscience of sexual brakes and accelerators or why we don’t have sex drives, you can skip to “How to stop stopping: taking your foot (and everything else) off the brake” to learn about why Amy’s catharsis works.

If you’re very low on energy and just want help, go to “Completing the cycle while (ahem) laying in bed” for my recipe on how to use size kink to achieve that catharsis. It’s not a quick fix, but I swear, this is one of the top things that has helped me manage my mental health through the pandemic.


Commissioned artwork

I am thrilled with the artwork I commissioned from TinyBoyToy, a talented artist from the #SizeTwitter community who creates gorgeous queer giant/tiny artwork. (Heads-up, they do sometimes post body horror content on their Patreon.) They are wonderful to work with, please commission them and help them reach 20 patrons so they can keep making amazing art!

Thanks also to the anonymous donor who contributed to my commission fund. I’m so grateful!

Illustration of a tiny nude person under the hand of a much larger person. The tiny is crying and holding their finger. The large person is visible, watching them. Around the frame are illustrations of paper, tech, headphones, and other items you'd find on a crowded desk.
Illustration credit to @TinyBoyToy. Do not repost without permission. Click to see full image. Commission the artist and support them on Patreon at

Feedback & community response

I appreciate the feedback I received for this story. As always, I’m deeply grateful to my beta readers and everyone who read my work and reviewed it.

What did people enjoy most about this story? This section is longer than I usually make it, because at least half of the feedback felt like it might have meaning for others, too. And we could all use more hope and meaning right now. Here’s what the readers had to say.

“A lovely story of partners negotiating kink and size spaces.”

“Beautifully and unforgivingly human characterization… Thoughtful use of visual descriptors manages to be both vivid yet also subdued. One of my favorites of this contest. Very fine work.”

“Fantastic feeling of frustration and being trapped by her own size. The relationship felt entirety natural and I practically felt the frustration as she fought her fury out of her and the relief at the end. An impressive ride of emotion and size entwined.”

“Deeply personal read about a familiar and infuriatingly contemporary struggle.”

“Stories like this bring some hope and light, especially in a time like this. Struggling with what you can and cannot do during the pandemic, how and who we can help, or if we can do anything to take care of ourselves. This is a harsh tale, but also one with hope, telling us the need of letting go, releasing the burden. How it plays with size games, with pressure, with all the tension to fight the negativity and find the ray of hope that keeps us going. All that in this story, so well-written and so intense.”

“Heartbreaking and sexy all at once.”

“My favorite thing about this one is how it resonated with Talmudic concepts of doing good in the world, even though the world seems so big.”

“I enjoy the trope of size being connected to emotional state, and you utilize it here in a meaningful, relatable, visceral, and hopeful (“Do for one”) way. These are real characters with real fears and needs, and this is an amazing piece of fiction.”

“This is a remarkable story about personal release and catharsis through size. I think one of the most beautiful things about this fetish of ours, is that it gives us an avenue to experience being powerful, and powerless. Ways to take, and ways to give. It’s usually difficult to write something that is meant for yourself, and have it encode for anyone else. The message got through this time. The need to fight, when there’s nothing suitable to fight. This story was such a beautiful way to solve that problem, with this gift of size we’ve been given. Thank you.”

“An amazing story, and perhaps one of the first I’ve read involving a definitively non-gendered deuteragonist. Also a look into a world of safe-words. Overall, this piece is a fantastic tale crafted with care and love. I’m better for having read it, and I’ll be returning to it throughout my future; one of the best compliments I can give a work of art.”

“To whoever wrote this story, thank you for writing it. This helped instigate the best cry I had in a while, one I sorely needed, because I didn’t even know I was feeling some of these things. If these experiences are based on real lived ones, please know that you have helped me. Rare is the story that encapsulates that feeling of impotence one feels when one has power—any power—to help and still can’t. Rarer are those that validate the feelings that arise. The rage, the utter, debilitating need to *be* and *not be*, while also acknowledging the little goods, the big goods, the unambiguously valid truth that comes with being hamstrung by a world that seems insistent on ignoring pain. Life imitates art, yet art draws from life and I was still surprised to come upon a story that will likely remain in my consciousness for a while.”

Maybe I didn’t need to share all of that, but I wanted to. Both for myself, as a reminder that in spite of my insecurities, I am actually succeeding at doing what I set out to do—write sexy stories about connection and love and the human experience—and also to acknowledge that we’re all going through a lot right now.

Some folks wrote some really personal, heartfelt things to me after reading this piece. Thank you for reading, and for trusting me.

You’re not alone.


Read the story

AUDIO VERSION: Coming this spring, check back for a 20-minute author-read version

TEXT VERSION: Read the full story behind the cut.

Do for One

By Elle Largesse

Copyright 2020, all rights reserved.

Submission for SizeRiot’s MyHeavenOct 2020 Erotica Contest

Content warnings: Themes include macrophilia/growing, microphilia/shrinking, cunnilingus, depression, burnout, anxiety attack, claustrophobia, PTSD, and suicidal ideation.

Disclaimer: This short story is intended for mature audiences. If you’re under 18 and are seeking sex positive resources, stop now and visit All characters depicted are above the age of 18 and exist only in fiction.

Amy’s fingers shuddered and jumped as she tried to force a meaningful reply to the terrified human being on the other end of the email. “I can’t,” she said aloud. She pushed back from her folding table desk and stood up, growing three feet taller as she stalked into the living room. Her partner Jude looked up from their own makeshift pandemic desk to take in the sight of Amy standing eight feet tall and shaking.

Eyes wide, they pulled off their headphones. “Babe?”

“What good is it to have magic powers when I can’t use them and can’t leave this apartment and can’t do anything?” Amy looked desperately down at them. “I want to scream. The grant writer needs stats on community outreach but direct service’s hotline is going nonstop and I’ve lost count of the heartbreaking emails this week from people I want to help but can’t. I can’t, Jude.”

She was nine feet already, her head brushing the ceiling until Jude came and pulled her into a safer, more open space that had been her primary reason for renting this apartment.

They brushed their hands down her arms, and held her huge, chilly hands in their own warm grip. “Can’t what?” they asked gently.

“I can’t write one more email about our waitlist. Can’t figure what to say, anymore. I’m trapped and useless and I sit at that window watching maskless people walking down the street and I want to smash the entire wall down—” She stopped, her voice tremulous. She unclenched her hands from Jude’s small grasp before she hurt them without meaning to.

“Do you… can you help me?” Amy had to close her eyes to ask it.

Amy rarely asked for help, especially while large, but Jude didn’t hesitate. “If I can help, I will.” They pulled her into a hug, though their head barely came up to Amy’s stomach. She opened her eyes again and ran her hands gratefully over Jude’s strong shoulders. Her fingers brushed against the binder under their shirt and her mind shied away from her own sense of being bound and trapped in this too-small space.

“I need to fight someone, need to break through this fury before I snap and outgrow the apartment.”

Jude looked up at her with alarm. “Should I set up my punching bag in the closet door frame again?” Jude was an amateur boxer, or had been before the pandemic, and when they both could find privacy in the ring late at night or outdoors, Amy loved to roughhouse and tease them to blow off steam as a Giantess. Jude loved to pit their skill and tenacity against Amy’s enormity and brute strength. Jude was more sub than switch, into kink for the seduction of the fight, giving it their all and being overpowered, anyway. Amy craved a scene like that, they both did. But they’d never risk it at home. Never surrounded by neighbors in an apartment that was their only refuge.

Amy shook her head. “I’d punch it through the wall. I thought, maybe… you could overwhelm me. If I went small.”

The hard lines of Jude’s face softened. They nodded, and Amy let go.

Shrinking into their arms was a relief in its own right. Jude kissed her when their sizes matched, the kind of crushing caress you steal when you know a moment cannot last. Amy’s size drained away from her as she looped her arms around their neck and clung tightly. One more kiss. She tried for a third, but missed. She almost stopped shrinking, then—perhaps it was enough to cling to them, beg for comfort? But rage and size magic still boiled in her stomach. She gritted her teeth and pushed smaller.

They stayed present with her, maintaining touch, asking the questions they had learned to ask in kink scenes back when the dungeons were still safe havens of physical connection. They negotiated the most important details before Amy lost herself in smallness and the submissiveness that often—but not always—came with the territory.

Amy lay nude against her own mouse pad, six inches small. She was surrounded by her own cluttered work area and the music pounding from Jude’s headphones on either side of her. The beat of Amy’s workout playlist throbbed around her, reminding her what it was like to push herself to her limits.

Jude looked intense as they stretched their right hand, massaging it as if warming up their body for a bout in the ring. Then they hovered their hand over Amy’s body, locking eyes with her as they lowered their fingertips to the table. Their index and middle finger rested on either side of her head, their palm over her chest but not touching yet. “Green?”


Amy understood the need for precautions. But she was impatient, jumpy with adrenaline from stress and desperation. And so she groaned with a kind of relief as Jude’s hand came down full against her body. Heavy, like the weighted blanket Jude bought during the protest fireworks of June and July that set off their PTSD. Amy remembered holding them while they endured through the endless nights, remembered how she grew to add her weight, her protective presence, as if she could smother Jude’s ghosts with her own magic. Now Jude returned the favor, pressing firmly against Amy’s breasts and stomach and hips.

“What do you want to do right now?” Jude asked, looming.

“I want to scream. I want to fight.”

“Then do it, bitch.” They sneered down at her, enormous, formidable. “But you’re too small to fight me.” Amy gave a kick, the top of her foot slamming into the solid wall of Jude’s wrist. She made fists and shoved the left one upwards into the broad warm skin of Jude’s palm. The right fist she slammed into the side of Jude’s hand, into the flesh between knuckles. “Oh, come on. You’re not even trying.”

Amy inhaled and kicked harder, again and again, bringing a knee up as if she were practicing in a self-defense class. She punched and kicked. A scream built inside her as her tiny frame filled with the warmth of her anger, a match for the heat radiating down from Jude’s immense, immovable body. The sound burst from her throat like steam from a kettle, drowning out the music.

“Fight me, damn it!” Jude’s voice was seismic. “Is that the best you can do?”

She thrashed against them. “So childish. Are you having a tantrum?”

Amy shrieked and her spasming “tantrum” escalated with the staggering fury that possessed her. She dug her nails into the webbing between Jude’s pinkie and ring finger, she tossed her head between their knuckles, she kicked and writhed and screamed and still Jude did not relent.

Bursts of size pulsed through her as she lifted up screaming. “Oh, no you don’t,” Jude snapped. “Shrink, you little bitch!” Amy snarled but obeyed.

“Green?” they asked, between clenched teeth.

“Green!” Amy panted.

Jude leaned close. Pressure sank down into Amy’s body like they were pinning her to the mat. “Fight me like an adult! Use your words! Why are you pissed?”

Amy screamed again, her heart racing past the beat of the music. “FUCK YOU! FUCK THIS!”

“Fuck what?”

“FUCK!” Amy threw the word up into their face. “Fuck the lack of funding! Fuck the hotline that never stops ringing, fuck the emails, FUCK THE EMAILS, the never-ending emails, full of pain and horror I can never hold, never in a million years, fuck the secrets I have to keep, the Goddamned confidentiality, fuck the fact that I can’t grow ten hundred feet tall and pry the roof off the Capitol and SCREAM but I can’t do anything, I just hide behind a computer screen and I can’t, God, Jude, I just can’t—what’s the point anymore?”

Amy’s sobs were the only part of her pushing up against Jude’s palm now. She wrapped her hands around Jude’s fingers and buried her face in the side of their index finger. Jude used their free hand to pull the headphones away.

“How many people have you helped this year?” Jude’s voice was no longer a force of nature hurtling down from above, but their words held power. A fighter not ready to tap out.

“I—I don’t know—”

“Bullshit. How. Many.”

Amy struggled to force her thoughts back to the report she had pulled for the grant writer that morning. She looked up to her computer screen, up-side down. The numbers were somewhere in there, but they might as well have been on the moon. “I don’t know!” She curled up under Jude’s weight. Shrinking.

Her eyes snapped open at the sound of paper tearing above her. Jude held a note over her head. “Read it.”

Amy squinted through exhaustion and tears, and obeyed. “Do for one what you wish you could do for all.”

Jude set the paper aside. “Have you helped at least one person this year?”

Amy’s next words were barely audible to Jude, she knew, but she couldn’t muster the effort to try harder. “This country is a house on fire and we’re trapped inside and people are dying and it’s like I’m using a thimble to try and put out the flames when all I want to do is to shrink so small nobody can ever find me again.”

Jude froze. “Red.”

Amy cried harder but nodded.

Jude raised their hand, but kept a finger of contact against her arm, then her back. “Lifting you,” they said. Amy let herself be carried to the glacier-sized bed.

Jude sank down next to her and curled their entire body around her. Close by but not overwhelming. And still touching. Always touching.

“Babe, do you have any idea the difference you make in people’s lives?”

Amy looked at Jude’s soft lips.

“In my life?” Jude tried again.

Amy’s tears swelled as she met Jude’s gaze.

“I love you so much, Jude,” she whispered. Their eyes glazed with the tears they’d never let themselves shed. They closed their eyes for a long time. Amy waited, wiping her own face dry.

“I love you, too,” they said finally. “Please promise you’ll never leave me like… like you said. It’s valid to feel that way right now. Just. Please.”

Amy unfolded herself. She walked on the shifting softness of the bedspread over to Jude, knelt by their lips, and kissed them.

“I want you to turn onto your back,” she said. “Green?” Jude obeyed. “Green,” they said, watching her as she climbed up their chin and straddled Jude’s lips. Her little hands braced against Jude’s nose and her thighs spread wide over their mouth, which curved into a sad smile.

Jude licked, and Amy moaned. And then Amy grew.

Heavier and larger. Grinding her clit and folds down onto her lover’s mouth. Fighting against Jude’s pain the way she fought her own pain. Raw and afraid and unrelenting. They moaned together and soon Amy was kneeling with a thigh on either side of Jude’s face. Soon she was surpassing Jude’s height. Soon she was sliding bigger over her lover’s body, swelling and huge and groaning as they serviced her to a climax that every single neighbor heard for certain.

Jude lay gasping as Amy sank down next to them and curled her entire body around them. They still didn’t cry, but their breath came in half-sobs, then broke into gusts of laughter.


“All these things you do, they feel so small to you, right?”

Amy cocked her head at their crooked smile.

“Well, I was thinking… to that one person you help. I bet it feels really, really big.”

Amy’s heart caught in her throat.

“Jude?” she said. She was ten feet tall, but she felt so, so small when she spoke again. “I promise.”

Jude found her hand and held her tightly.


Published inEroticaShort FictionWriting


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *