Guest blog: Facesitting and size fantasy

Image by the brilliant Stuart F Taylor

I found today’s guest blog so moving and intense that it’s quite hard to write an introduction. When Aborigen (@[email protected] on Masto) got in touch to offer a post about macrophilia/size fantasy, and plug his podcast zHeitgeist, I was excited to read about a kink I don’t share and hoping I could gain an insight into the way that facesitting is of particular appeal to macrophiles who want to feel small, vulnerable, crushed. I wasn’t quite expecting him to make such a beautiful case for acceptance and understanding of all consensual kinks. On top of this, he gives a truly exquisite example of why being vulnerable with your lovers, and accepting their vulnerabilities too, can be powerfully rewarding. I want to go back in time and share this with my past self, and any number of past lovers too. It’s longer than guest blogs usually are, so grab a cuppa before you dive in. It’s worth it.

Facesitting and size fantasy

It’s my belief that everyone’s into something, whether they’ll admit it or not. Some of us keep those desires hidden because we’re afraid of being judged, but if we talked about our fantasies more, I think we’d learn what we have in common, by what they provide to us or why we chase them. We fantasize about partners and scenarios in order to feel desirable or wanted in various ways, to be overwhelmed by sensual pleasure to the exclusion of the rest of the world and our concerns, to momentarily seize control or to surrender it to someone else, and sometimes we throw in the frisson of danger to amplify the experience. We dress our fantasies up in different outfits and set them up with different props, but the motives are often similar.

So it is with me. I’m into lots of different things, some popular and some obscure. For example, I love a nice, big, round butt. I like to watch jeans stretch taut over it, I love to see panties disappear between bulging buttocks, and I really love to be smothered under a huge, grinding ass.

But I also entertain a fantasy that can’t exist in this world under our current rules of physics: an experience that can only be represented in graphic art and writing or approximated with a generous and understanding partner. You probably know what I mean when I say I like big butts, but what comes into mind when I tell you I like big women? Not merely Rubenesque, I mean a titaness, a giantess, a goddess on earth. Standing beside her, I might only come up to her shin, or maybe I’m only as tall as her ankle. And it could be that she’s normal-sized, but I’m the one who’s been shrunken down to a few inches tall.

“I don’t agree with that shame”

If you’ve read this blog for a long time, you’ve likely heard of macrophilia, the attraction to gigantic people. Though the question of perspective is always interesting: are they huge or are you tiny? This has never been resolved for me, so I just say I’m into Size Fantasy, which covers small people into giant people as well as vice versa. For many obvious reasons, this fantasy can’t be engaged with in the real world, but there are ways around that. Like I said, artwork and writing go a long way because these experiences are all the same to the psyche. But if you’re into Size Fantasy and you’ve looked for giantess videos online, you know that you can emulate a giantess on camera with perspective: a low-angle shot with your phone can make any woman look colossal and intimidating (and, by my estimation, succulent). With a partner, you simply substitute your own head for the phone…

Face-sitting is one of my favorite shared positions, and by its nature it contains the Size Fantasy POV. In my Venn diagram of bedroom pursuits, it’s the shaded sliver between giant asses and giantesses.

There’s the moment, likely an empty Saturday afternoon, when my partner and I are both horny and completely open to suggestion. We’ve stripped ourselves and washed each other, and we’re lolling around on the bed, negotiating the music for the moment, and then one of us asks the other what they’d like, or she simply offers to sit on my face because she knows I love it. It takes a little work to get into position: she tries to straddle me while I’m lying on my side of the bed, too near the edge, or I need a firmer pillow to shove my head upward, into her. What she may not know is that I love this part too, watching her limbs bend and unfold over me, watching her big round butt sway and tremble over my belly and then my chest. It could be an embarrassing position, exposing her crack to me like that, where we’re taught all the ugliness resides, hidden in cakes of flesh and layers of clothing. I don’t agree with that shame, and watching those huge cheeks heave and clash only represents a delicious promise being hinted at, pulled away, glimpsed again.

Her thighs spread as she settles down on my chest, and those magnificent butt cheeks swell mere inches from my face. She arches her back, thrusts her chest outside of my view, and the window (shit, did we draw the curtains?) casts soft light over her skin, with a sinuous shadow running down her spine. Her hair is a tousled mop atop her smooth shoulders, her face hidden from my view, and she slips her feet under my shoulders and rolls her hips, scooting backward up my chest.

This is beautiful on its own. This is gorgeous and enticing any day of the week. I feel strongly that many people would agree with this. But it is especially meaningful to me, since it’s not just a lovely big round butt that’s slowly creeping up to my face to smother me in cute curves and soft skin. From my perspective, I could be a tiny man sitting on the bed, watching as my giantess scoots her beautiful derriere backward, encroaching ever closer to my frail, vulnerable person. I can suppose that it’s not just my face she wants to feel mashed against her pussy but my entire person, living and whole, wedged and trapped between those beautiful buttocks.

She creeps backward further, and more of my little goddess disappears: her hips swell in my vision, occluding her thighs; the plane of her pelvis sinks behind the almost spherical curves of her ass, and her back becomes a steep, creamy cliff towering above me. She’s a sexy juggernaut rolling toward me, her cheeks boffing gently against my chin as she settles, her hips nearing and preparing to smother and crush me under her sensual core.

When her butt cheeks crawl over my face, part of me is being inducted into her private recesses, face-to-face with her most sensitive bits, if she were self-conscious at all. To drape her vulva over my face and leave her anus twitching just above the tip of my nose is a huge gesture of trust and vulnerability, one I’ve only rewarded by way of my hunger for it. Feeling that humid, pungent crack (no matter how often we wash) connect with and seal on my face like a mask is to reconnect with my lover once again in a very personal way. She knows I love this, she knows I think she’s beautiful down there. She’s putting herself in an awkward position to share something intimate with me, and it’s just as vulnerable for me to reveal to her how much this means to me, how much I crave it, how often I think about it.

In this act, we reward each other for taking a chance and laying ourselves bare.

“As small as I am, my giantess still wants me”

But I’m also a tiny little man, three inches tall, a fraction of an ounce in weight. I’m lying helplessly on the bed as she looms over me, as my world is eclipsed by broad cheeks swelling on either side of me. As she slides backward, all sight of her body disappears, taken over by the vast buttocks that spread around me, and my air is replaced by the musk of her shower-damp body and the prelude to her arousal, the glistening line between the lovely, sweet folds of labia swaying slowly above me. This is all about being loved and desired, the implication that as small as I am, my giantess still wants me, and in fact I’m the only being that can please her. I no longer have a huge body for her to embrace or with which to crush her on the mattress, but I have a small body that can stroke and spread her labia and shoulder my way inside her vagina, filling her in a familiar way.

I mean, how often have we analogized a man’s penis to another little person anyway? There’s the ancient joke that men take orders from it, that it supplants our thinking. It must be a little dictator that wants to nudge against a cute pink anus, wants to shove her labia apart, drink deeply of her juices, and thrust inside to be kept and hugged with excitement and real greed. I think anyone who’s thrust their cock eagerly into a partner’s pussy and tried to picture what it was like in there, feeling their way around with this blunt instrument, is only a few inches and one manga away from recognizing the macrophile within.

My lover begins bearing down on me, taking the strain off her thighs and knees, confident that she can rest on my face and my skull can withstand it. I love the pressure, I love feeling my face being stretched a little. I may not love the way her pelvic bone crushes my lip against my teeth, but I can adjust for that, and I do love nuzzling into her fuzzy labia, shoving them aside, poking the scraggly hairs away with my tongue, the better to spread her inner tissues over my lips. I love kissing her pussy, I love it so much. I share with her a preliminary lick, widening my hot tongue to stroke the folds of her vulva, to smooth away the last few hairs, and to acquaint myself with how she tastes today. My tongue isn’t especially long, I can’t thrust it inside her as deeply as my fingers or my cock, but I can still search around and slide her inner labia this way and that, lick around them, make sure they all feel loved, and swat my tongue back and forth over her vulva for good measure.

Whether I’m large or tiny, her ass swells over my eyes, entirely blocking my field of vision, and now I know nothing else but her. The tricky, tedious project from work is shoved out of my head; any family issues are boxed and shelved, out of mind. All I’m aware of are the glimpses of sunlight I might catch during an errant roll of her hips as she fits my jaws into her crotch. Now I can reach up and sink my fingertips into her hips, clutching her buttocks greedily, tendons rising with my hunger like an erection of the hands. I spread her cheeks and study what her asshole’s doing, how it puckers, whether it puffs or retracts with what I’m stirring in her vagina. I squeeze and press her cheeks around my face, blinding me, suffocating me, craving no more than feeling those gorgeous hemispheres smothering me.

It’s no use asking why I’m coded to be aroused by these shapes, why twin spheres of human flesh should get me so hard, especially at a time like this. There’s no deconstructing the biological imperative now. The only thing to do is burrow deeper into them, grateful they’re there so abundantly, being shared with me.

Twist the dial, adjust the frequency, and I’m tiny beneath her again. My goddess is pounding her hips into my little body, trying to crush me under her huge ass or wedge me in there. She gets off on feeling my vulnerable little body swimming against her wet labia, seeking the odd swipe of one of my limbs inside her tissues. I’m a toy for her use: a small, solid mass for her to grind her pussy against, the way other women sit on washing machines or hump a pillow. She seeks the power, she relishes her dominion over me, an entire living being overwhelmed by her mere vulva: my smallness makes her powerful and grand, her decisions are final and her judgment is incontrovertible. If she wants to rub her throbbing clit over my spindly ribs or nudge it into my stupid face, she can, and all I can do is take it. If she wants to seize my legs in her fist and shove my torso into her pussy, giving me a couple good thrusts while she clenches my body, then stuff me with two impatient fingers into her velvety, roiling depths… well, holy fuck, I wish she would.

“As if she could absorb me”

She gets wetter. She says she remembers years when she used to get so wet, but she’s dribbling over my cheeks now and I tell her so, and she’s relieved. I want so badly to shock her with a tongue up her ass, just once, but that’s not for today. Instead, I bare my teeth and rub them over her labia; I pucker my lips and suck her lips between them, nibbling so gently. This might be more for me than for her, because I find her pussy lips adorable. I love shoving my kiss inside her, how her labia spread around my mouth. Her heavy thighs, weighing upon my chest; her little hands, poking into my thighs as she props herself up to dump all her weight into my face, the concentration of all my sensory perceptors.

Eyes: blotted out under fat cheeks. Nose: a little bruised but digging into her crack undeterred. Ears: full of the crunch of the mattress beneath us, occasionally picking up a slurp or a moan. Tongue: loaded with her salty honey but otherwise engaged with shoving her labia around and slathering her clit, building up for the finale. And I can hardly pay attention to the rest of my body, with the acute focus of touch and pressure I’m reading in my whole face. If she wanted to reach down and stroke my cock, try to fit the end of it in her little mouth, she could. If she wanted to scrape her nails behind my balls, I’d love that. But the most important thing for me, the whole reason I’m here in this situation, is to see the county limits of death in the distance as I shove my face as hard and deep into her ass and cunt as I can physically manage. This would be so much easier if I were half the size of my cock.

I don’t need to come. It’s probably safer if I don’t, because if I’m going to come, then yes, I want my air cut off. I want her pelvic bone to bruise my face somewhere. I want my consciousness to focus smaller and smaller, down to the point where I truly am nothing but a dot somewhere between her glutes, rolling around her perineum, submerged within her welcoming and hungry pussy, to be lost forever. The grip of my hands on her hips tell her I need it harder, heavier, and she momentarily overcomes any concern for my well-being and bears down on me, almost as if she wanted this as badly as I do. She knows it’ll be over soon, so all she has to do is ignore what’s nudging against her anus and keep lightly bouncing that big, beautiful ass on my face, throbbing as though she’s growing larger through the activity, grinding into me like it makes her bigger and more powerful, as if she could absorb me, and I hold my breath until I can’t and realize that I can’t breathe either, not easily, and my come shoots into the air and spatters onto my belly.

I’m not done at that point. I’m still nuzzling into her crotch, I’m still chasing the last remnants of this experience, getting everything out of it that I can because I’m in another place. ‘Subspace‘, they call it in BDSM; ‘smallspace’, my friends call it. My body is shot through with gold and my lungs are burning and nothing else exists except my lover’s hips and ass and pussy, all engulfing me, clutching me…

Until, yeah, I’m done. It’s over quickly: as soon as my head sinks back into the pillow and I suck down the comparatively cold air, my patient and generous partner collapses to the side and begins flexing her stiffened joints. That’s a difficult position to hold for a long time. I continue milking my erection, catching up on the oxygen I missed, and I praise her repeatedly. I have to ensure she knows – really knows – my gratitude for what she’s shared with me, what she’s done for me, how much this means to me. Perhaps that’s something that can’t be adequately expressed, only trusted in the abstract. She’s up and off the bed, padding back into the bathroom for another shower, and I lie there until my semen sublimates from a slime to a thin liquid, trickling ticklishly down my side before I can mop it up with a towel or some Kleenex.

“It’s not wrong, it’s very human”

I don’t know if I’d really want to be a tiny man for my wife. I’d be worried about what she’s missing out on – I’m the one who can reach the high shelves, for one thing. And as open as I’ve become about my fantasy, writing and recording a song about it with friends, starting a newsletter and a podcast, I still have some residual shame about it. I realized I was into giantesses when I was a small child, but I didn’t think I was broken or alone: I assumed everyone was into something and there was no need to talk about it. It was a secret we all kept. But yeah, shame: if I weren’t with my wife, I don’t know if I could ever find another partner who could be ready to hear this about me, much less indulge me in it. It takes a lot of generosity and patience to be with someone pursuing the giantess. Sometimes I feel bad for her, having to cope with me instead of having a ‘normal’, ‘healthy’ partner who doesn’t require so much understanding. But not always.

Other times, I remind myself that the only difference between my kink and others’ is scale. Most people want to find themselves awash in physical ecstasy; most people want to feel desired and wanted and valuable; many people want a momentary reprieve from control and responsibilities. And some of us crave a little danger to heighten the experience. It’s not wrong, it’s very human, and at least I can be honest about it.



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