The Giantess Who Lives Next Door
I am the giantess that lives next door.
Okay, technically, I live on the ground floor apartment in your building. Or maybe I live in that nondescript ranch house on the corner. There's a chance I was that plain-looking, forgettable Tinder date, or that talkative checkout girl at the grocery store. Heck, maybe I'm your own partner biding my time until you're out of town on a business trip.
Point is: I'm somewhere out there, and you don't know where.
I feel bad sometimes since I know how bad you want to know I'm out there (and I am). I think of it when I hear the enormously satisfying sound of fabric surrendering to my expanding body. It crosses my mind every time I'm eleven-feet-tall and crawling on all-fours to keep from putting another dent in the ceiling. It occurs to me when I gorge my way through all the remaining leftovers in my fridge and cabinets, then park my giant, naked butt on the floor in front of the TV and burn through a Saturday afternoon growing and binge-watching Netflix.
Yes, food makes me grow. As you can imagine, being the growth enthusiast I am, all my extra money goes towards food. For the most part, I eat like an average person, but once I reach capacity, my body switches into 'growth mode' (my own superscientific term), leaving my standard 5'4" height in the dust. The rate and the total gain depend on how much I've eaten, and I shrink back down as I use all the energy I've stored. Simple really.
While I can't provide exact figures, I have a pretty good grasp of how much food translates into how much growth—more from practice and experimentation than anything. I like to think I'm doing my part to eliminate food waste since the energy gets put to good use. I make it a habit to collect leftovers from parties and events I attend. Most people chalk it up to me being cheap and not wanting to cook. I just smile and shrug it off.
You know that girl who eats way more than she should and never seems to gain weight? Two words: secret giantess.
Bursting out of clothing never gets old. It's a tangible, concrete reminder that I started at one size and grew to a bigger, better one. As much fun as it is, I typically stop short of ruining my clothes. Partly because it's expensive, but it's also fun playing with how outfits look at different sizes (Transform! Tank top to sports bra!). It's funny. Growing was something we were so used to as children. It didn't seem a big deal then, but imagine your doctor said she expects you to grow eighteen inches in the next six years. Now imagine doing it in a couple of hours. That's a typical evening for me.
This gift of mine had to come from somewhere, and I suppose you want to know. Well, I'm not going to tell you. Why should I? Is it because you want to replicate it (you can't, btw) for yourself? Is it so you can try and track me down, figure out who I am? Nope, not happening. Maybe you're a biology nerd, and you need to know how it's even possible for a human being to grow that large, let alone control it. The thing is, I don't care how it's possible. The important thing is I can grow, and I do.
I love being big. I love it more than anything—except growing. Growing is sublime. The physical feeling itself is what you'd expect: a mild numbness mixed with a stretching sensation. The real thrill is knowing I'm growing; consuming space in the room, and gradually watching everything shrink around me. There's also something cool about knowing, for a fact, I am the tallest person in the world. I don't have to see another person or look down on a crowd of people. All I need is a Google search. Boom: tallest person alive.
Now by a foot. Now by two feet.
What do I do once I've grown? Not much. To be honest, the growth process followed by the subsequent big-ness is more than enough to satisfy me. Every once and a while, I pull out some of my favorite tricks. Smashing furniture under my weight is fun, but I can't do it often because it's noisy and I don't want my neighbors wondering about all the broken furniture. Growing until my head touches the ceiling is a classic, soon followed by the back of my head, then my shoulder blades and, on some occasions, my back. I also like seeing how close I can grow to the ceiling without my head actually touching it—sort of like height shuffleboard.
When I'm feeling particularly bold, I leave the house grown—an inch, never more than that. It's a rush because it's just enough I notice, but not enough that anyone else would. I love the look I get from someone who knows me and thinks they see something different. For the briefest of seconds, they almost let themselves believe it's possible, but they dismiss it. Of course, I'm tempted to push it further, but if I were to grow three or even two inches, I'd get questions. I don't need questions.
I've never told anyone about my gift. Why not? First of all, there's the oft-stated "because I'm afraid of being a science experiment." I'm not fond of being taken in by the government (or worse), and I have no wish to destabilize society by publicly flipping off the laws of nature. I've never told any of my partners, I never will, and they will never suspect it. Who worries about their spouse growing twice their size when they're away? My family doesn't know, because they're all squealers. My friends don't know, because why would I tell them? In the end, my gift is my secret and mine alone.
Okay, there is one purrson.
My lovely, furry, black kitty Lulu knows about my gift, and she's not telling. She gets to reap the benefits of having a part-time giantess roommate, crawling over me like a big ol' cat tree. I still cradle her like a kitten, and I can't help but giggle at the sensation of her little claws when she climbs across my chest and rests on my warm, bare belly. Most of all, I appreciate that she inevitably gets bored and takes leave of her twelve-foot naked roommate to eat, sleep, or do her litter box business. She reminds me I'm still me, only bigger. It keeps me in check.
Have I ever gotten caught? Not even close. I love being big way too much to ever put it in jeopardy. I don't drink. I don't do drugs. I don't even want the temptation to be impulsive or careless with my gift. Besides, what drug could top actually growing? In fact, if I found out that my ability to grow was going to kill me in a week unless I gave it up, I'd charge a few thousand dollars of catering to my credit card and die seven days later curled up in my living room, forty feet tall and wearing an ear-to-ear grin.
I honestly have no idea how big I can get. The furthest I pushed myself was after the holidays last year. I had a week off from my job but only used two days to visit my parents. As usual, I volunteered to take all of their leftovers, and they were more than happy to oblige. Returning home, I attended several more parties, scooping up leftovers by the pound. I even hit an after-Christmas grocery sale and ended up buying myself a whole new holiday meal. I spent the entire next day prepping food and packed it in my fridge for the big(!) week.
Monday morning, I got up early and ate a dozen eggs, eight pancakes, and a whole package of bacon. My growth kicked in not even halfway through the meal. Finishing breakfast, I immediately set to re-heating the leftovers. I steadily grew as I moved about, having an increasingly—and entertainingly—difficult time handling the utensils, dishes, and appliances.
The turkey finished around noon, the fourteen-pound bird already looking the size of a rotisserie chicken to me. I devoured it, ripping it apart with my long, lengthening fingers. By the time I finished, it seemed more like a Cornish game hen. The rest—stuffing, mashed potatoes, mac & cheese, ham—went super fast. I shoveled it into my mouth, and my growth accelerated, adding inches per minute and packing on muscle and fat faster than ever before. I could literally feel myself growing, and it was pure bliss. Finishing the last plate, I crawled into the living room and stretched across the floor. I savored the sensations of my expanding body creeping across on the cold hardwood and patiently let my growth run its course.
When it finally stopped, I had a hard time gauging my new enormity. Based on my being noticeably taller seated than I usually stood and the difficulty I had keeping my knees from hitting the wall, I figured myself to be a little over twenty feet tall. Crawling towards my kitchen, I found even my not-so-curvy self now had hips several inches too wide to clear the doorway, so I turned on my side and slithered through the frame. Once inside, I bent some old silverware as a test of my increased strength. I even experimented with moving the fridge, surprised at the relative ease with which I could handle it. That's a neat trick to have in my back pocket, just in case I need to move some furniture later.
Over the next week, I nursed my stockpile of leftovers, never letting myself drop lower than fifteen feet. I mostly ate, laid around with Lulu, and caught up on shows. By day four, cabin fever had set in and let myself return to standard. It had been a delightful grow-cation, and after three days as a giantess in a tiny apartment, reducing back down made me feel...small. Of course, all it took was the memory of my majestic body stretched from my entryway through the living room and into the kitchen to put a smile on my face and a spring in my step.
So, what's my limit? Your guess is as good as mine. Most unusually large or tall people are plagued with health and mobility problems. I've found, if anything, I feel just as energized and agile as I do at my standard height, if not more so. Unfortunately, despite my generous calories-to-energy ratio, my middle-class income makes pushing my limits difficult. I've made peace with the fact that I may never know my true potential. Who does, really?
It doesn't mean I can't dream.
When I'm not at home growing, I'm working my butt off at my job. I dream about one day having the means to truly explore the outer limits of my gift, away from anyone who might see or hear. Perhaps I'll start simple with a home with a large spare bedroom. I'll invest in that house, and move into a bigger one with my enclosed private pool. Then a sprawling mansion with a few acres of forest where I can get some natural privacy. Heck, maybe one day I'll have an island where I could feel completely safe and grow to my heart's content.
Everything in my life revolves around my gift and making the most of it. I love being a giantess, and it is all I need.
That and Lulu.