Here it is, my first entry in my own September Kinky Scribble Challenge. Only, um… twenty-three days into the month. Skip to the story content section if you want to jump right in.

This scribble took two hours of writing, and received one round of edits. I had to keep this one light-hearted, and while I do consider it erotic, it is not nearly as graphic as most of my stories. Many thanks to my partner pseudo_size for body-doubling with me through several writing sprints to help me get words on the page!

A kinky scribble is a flash fiction exercise I developed to help me level up as a writer, to create stories and let them go. I envy artists who can scribble a sketch and share it unfinished into the wild for people to enjoy. This is my answer to that for writers. Feel free to join in yourself, and share with #KinkyScribble so others can find it. If you want to take the September challenge, use #SeptKinkyScribble.

 

You launched a challenge & then disappeared. Why?

Yeah, sorry about that, folks. I’ve been asking myself that same question for the last twenty-three days. The short answer is that I’ve been needing some extra care for my mental health. The long answer involves bullet points. (Again, no judgement if you want to skip to the story content section because you’re just here for the big lady tiddies.)

Writing is an experiment. What happens if I use these words in this way? You try it, and no matter what happens, you have some more data than you did before. Data about other peoples’ responses and data about how you responded to that feedback. Will you repeat the experiment exactly or change some variables?

I’ve tried a lot of experiments over the years:

• What happens if I write in a fancy journal? A cheap one? Do I write better on my laptop with fancy software like Scrivener, or with my thumbs on my phone in a Google Doc? (I learn that, at least for myself, I prefer cheap journals and Google Docs.)
• What happens if I compete in NaNoWriMo? (I learn that I can technically write 1667 words a day for 30 days. I don’t like to read anything I write, but it still built my confidence to learn I can write those words!)
• What happens if I try writing random kinky thoughts on Tumblr? (I learn that I am not alone in these kinky thoughts, and I want to write a lot more of them.)
• What happens if I try writing erotica for SizeRiot contests? (I learn that I get really excited, I have a lot of fun, and even sort of enjoy the last-minute panic with the thrill of the deadline. I get good feedback and discover I want to write a lot of erotica. Like. A lot of erotica.)
• What happens if I spend years trying to write a single perfect novel and then give up? What if I do this multiple times? (It’s been hard to look at the data on this one. My therapist is helping me process it.)
• What happens if I decide to practice writing short stories with low stakes? How many of these can I write? (I learn that I can produce a lot of fun and interesting stories this way and start calling them kinky scribbles! It feels like hacking my brain and it’s a big relief and confidence boost.)
• What happens if I invite others to do that, too? What if I make a big community event? (I learn that this raises the stakes. I learn that my brain does not yet have the skills to handle staying creative with high stakes in this way. I learn, for the millionth time, how helpful it is to have a sex-positive therapist.)

When I launched the challenge, it seemed like a great idea. I’d been writing and posting more often, and it felt like the right time to push myself. I didn’t feel up to hosting a writing contest, but this level of community leadership seemed like it was within my wheelhouse. I genuinely thought it would be a breeze and was caught off guard when it brought up a lot of difficult things for me.

The good news is that my therapist is amazing and it turns out EMDR also works on issues like this. (Or, at least, it works on issues like this in my weird-ass neurodivergent brain. YMMV.)

Y’all know I talk a big game about the artist being more important than the art, and how vitally important it is for creatives to take care of ourselves and our health. Especially when capitalism has trained us to believe we need to provide constant, unrelenting top-quality output without complaint or breaks. No matter how much I know we need rest and can’t expect perfection, my body sometimes has a hard time believing that and trusting it. If you’ve felt this way, too, you’re not alone.

Mental health is messy. So is writing. I’m taking in the data and trying to be open to what it’s telling me, with less judgment and more curiosity. I’m making slow headway, I’m giving myself time to rest, and I’m trying to be okay with the idea of setting aside my goal if necessary.

I’m still hoping to write and publish two more scribbles with the help of the looming Sept 30th deadline. What size kinkster doesn’t love some looming?

 

Artwork

The photo I used in the banner is by Klara Kulikova on Unsplash.

 

Support the author

Money is tight right now. I have multiple works of fiction in progress, ranging from wholesome to kinky as fuck. I’d like to continue releasing them here for free.

If you enjoy this story and want to see/hear more like it, the best way to do that is to support me financially. The few donations I get usually go right into commissioning art and paying beta readers. (The second best way is to boost the signal on my stories and encourage your friends to support me, too.) Thanks, y’all!

 

Story synopsis

Two sizeshifters are caught in the rain. It’s too public to use their powers much, right?

 

Story content

Tagging is the only way I know for people online to be able to opt in or out of a sexual experience with fully informed consent. I welcome help in tagging—please let me know when I have missed anything important.

Tags for this story include:

Content tags: M/f, F/m – growth, flirting, public nudity, gentle

 

Read the story

TEXT VERSION: Read the text version of the story behind the cut.

AUDIO VERSION: I might record audio for this story. If I get enough requests, I will move it up on my priority list.

 

Two Sizeshifters in the Rain

786 words

By Elle Largesse

Copyright 2023, all rights reserved. Do not reproduce my work or use it in any way without my permission.

 

 

—

She gave a jolt as his hand brushed hers. The sidewalk was packed today, and it shouldn’t have surprised her, but it did. So did his hand on her back, warm and gentle as he nudged her towards the wide-open plaza.

She came here on sunny days to admire the flowers, but today’s cool clouds seemed to draw all the attention. Well, almost all. She found her eyes searching out his, and felt a thrill every time they connected. Their sizes had matched today, for a wonder. He was eye-level with her for now, and she liked it.

She gasped as the first raindrops tickled her bare shoulders. “Just our luck,” he said, lifting a hand to shield his eyes as he looked up at the sky. “What do you say, want to take shelter under a daisy?” He grinned at her and she did her best not to make the “squee” sound that rose in her throat at the thought of him shrinking to hide under a flower with her.

“You would be so incredibly cute at that size,” she said, holding her purse over her head. She kicked off her sandals and grew several inches taller, just to smirk down at him. “And by cute, I mean very sexy. And manly. You should try it.”

The rain picked up the pace from a sprinkle to a drizzle. She sighed for the half hour she’d spent diffusing her hair, and hoped her curls wouldn’t be too frizzy after all this.

“Hey now, plenty of tiny men are very secure in their masculinity.” He laughed and kicked off his own sandals, and matched her height, then surpassed it. His cotton shirt stretched between his shoulders and his jeans actually creaked with the effort of holding him in. He grew until he was looming over her, sheltering her gallantly from the rain.

“True,” she said. Feeling very daring, she leaned against him for the first time since they’d met. He smelled like laundry detergent, sunscreen—guess she wasn’t the only one who’d forgotten to check the weather this morning—and something a little spicy. The rain pattered on the stone of the plaza and the plants in the gardens, invoking the earthy scent of petrichor.

An ache started under her collarbone. How long has it been since I just stood in the rain? She glanced at the now-deserted sidewalks in the distance, the people dashing by with umbrellas. This was still really public, it would be a risk… but the ache was louder than all that logic.

How’s this for daring? she thought, and stepped away from the shelter of his body.

“Plenty of Giant women are very secure…” she said, pushing larger and larger. “In their femininity.”

She gave a long groan, the kind that comes when breaking free of your bra at the end of the day. She was glad she’d opted for an off-the-shoulder top that draped over her chest and was actually better without a bra. By the time she’d matched his height, the elastic was stretching to its limit and the extra ruffled fabric definitely no longer draped over her breasts. Her nipples strained against the fabric. She kept going.

He had taken a step back, his face registering surprise and maybe a little uncertainty. He lifted his hand again, but this time he wasn’t shielding his eyes to look at the clouds. It was to look at her.

She smiled with satisfaction. She ran her hands over the rain drops on her face, heedless of her makeup. She ran her hands over her throat, over the ache. She traced her fingertips lower, taking the edge of the elastic and pulling it down.

His eyebrows shot upwards and his eyes practically dilated as she revealed her breasts to the world. The chilly air and drops of rain were working wonders on keeping them perky, she knew, and her nipples crinkled hard in the cold. She drew her fingertips gently across them and smiled benevolently down at her awestruck date.

“Want to take shelter… under me?” She laughed, not in a smirking, teasing way, but with a delight that bubbled up from deep in her chest. It made her feel like growing, so she did.

She didn’t wait to see if he would take her up on her offer. She spread her arms wide, her skin prickling with little bumps and shivering with the touch of a hundred raindrops all over her face, throat, shoulders, arms, and breasts.

She didn’t know how tall she was now. She rarely knew, without a measuring tape or familiar reference points. But it didn’t matter. He was looking up at her. And she turned her face to the sky.