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.Tales of the Exchange	By : keithcompany Category: G through L > Land of the Giants Views: 1809 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Land of the Giants show, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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A small group of refugees sat in one of the lounges, eating. There were no scheduled mealtimes in the Tank, but people tended to mob together for food.
It was a return to normalcy. Shared schedules, civilized behavior, that sort of thing. It wasn't easy. The only food available was loaves of Earthling-Chow provided by the giants.
But as the people awaiting return to Earth sat staring at the unvarying provisions, they talked. They talked about anything. People outside the tank had encouraged them not to ignore their giant-land experiences.
So they vented steam, preserved good memories, exorcized demonic ones... No topic was taboo.
Suzanne sat bouncing half a loaf of kibble in her hands for a moment. "Okay," she finally said. "What's the weirdest place you've made love on this planet?" She raised her eyes to look around the group.
"Sex?" Thomas asked. "We were fighting for our lives! There was no time for sex!"
"Inside a box of Crackerjacks," Jefferson said instantly after the protest. Thomas' head snapped around to stare. Jeff shrugged. "Life goes on, man. We crawled in to see if there was anything to eat. She said this is the worst date she'd ever been on. Well, it kinda fell out from there." He smiled at the memory. Thomas shook his head.
"In a cage," Terri said.
"That's the weirdest?"
"Victor was in the next cage over at the time," Terri said with a small smile. "Oooh, the bars were cold."
There was giggling at the image that afforded. A few winced. Thomas cleared his throat. People looked up, waiting patiently. "I never saw that in the Kama Sutra..."
A few more giggles sounded, and there were smiles at his attempt to join the discussion. Jefferson pat his shoulder.
"Giants, they am, what they am? Twenty meters in tall?" Monique asked haltingly. People nodded. "Then the place I've... had weirdly sex... That be about ten meters up."
"Oh!"
"Eugh!"
"Ew?"
"How?"
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Contrawd pulled on the creature's frill with his tweezers and made an amazing discovery.
"Scholar Fleesan! The Little People wear clothing!"
His field supervisor looked up from the collection of artifacts they'd amassed on this expedition. He paused to carefully place the item in his hands on the tag: "Little People Communication Tool" and wiped his hand over his eyes.
"What, uh, what did you think they had?"
"Protective coloration," Traw said with a shrug. Fleesan looked down on the examination table. The Little Person was taped to the pad. She wore a pastel pink blouse that finished in a short, short miniskirt, with blue tights running into patent leather boots that matched the skirt.
A wide belt matched the color of the tights. Her hair was platinum and her fingernails were the color his wife referred to as 'hooker orange.'
And she'd been captured in an evergreen forest.... "Protective...? What's your major, student?"
"Economics," Traw said with another shrug. The Scholar was beginning to think that gesture was what today's students used in place of the 'dude' of his own youth.
"And why are you on a field biology collection trip?"
"My security clearance for Sums Exceeding Five Hundred Dollars hasn't come through," he said. With yet another shrug.
"No," the Scholar said with a shake of his head. "With the exception of scale, Little People are just like people."
"Oh." He started to shrug when the supervisor stood suddenly.
"I'm going into town. For, uh, supplies." And a beer, he thought to himself. "Be sure you secure the captive when you're done."
"I will!" Traw promised.
Then he was alone in the tent. Or, he realized slowly...alone with a tiny woman.
There weren't many women in the Economics field. Most couldn't get the licensing to handle even theoretical Large Sums.
It had been a while since Contrawd had been...with... a woman. He leaned back over the exam table and made soothing sounds.
"There, there. No one's going to hurt you. Just relax." She responded with a long string of gibberish. It almost sounded like something he'd heard in the Anthropology department back at the college.
But how would a Little Person on First Nation soil learn a Third Nation language? A silly thought, so he rejected it.
"There, there," he said. And picked up the tweezers again.
Knowing this was clothing and not skin, his options became clear. He used the edge of the tweezers' handle to crease the tape around her feet.
That tore easily under the pincers. Then he tugged her boots off, pulling at the heels.
She wailed a bit but... But she couldn't stop him. And her hands were still taped down.
He lifted the skirt up, rucking it over her belly. He had to push it to find the tops of the tights. Those slid easily down her legs. He found he appreciated the color of her natural skin more than the second skin.
Just like real girls.
She kicked a bit, now. He liked that. He liked it a lot. This was no 'hold my wrists down, now pull my hair' playing games. This was real resistance. Really futile resistance.
He just kept tugging until she was bared.
Her panties wear a lot lower. He slid one arm of the tweezers under the strap over her hip. And pulled. She screamed, twisting her head back and forth.
Her pussy was revealed and Traw paused. She was younger than he'd thought. Not even haired... But hadn't the Scholar said...?
He left her panties at mid-thigh and looked through the notes. Fleesan had clearly identified her by the contents of her purse.
The ring of keys was associated with Little People maturity, as were certain plastic cards they'd tentatively called identity papers. 'VISA' was a clue even Dom could figure out. Just like his travel-outside-of-the-city visa he'd acquired for the field trip. They just couldn't find anywhere near enough writing on it...
Anyway, she was mature. A professional had said so. Maybe she was a breed with different markings? He pulled the panties the rest of the way off.
He didn't want to tape her bare skin directly, so he wrapped wire ties from the sample bags around her ankles and taped those to the table.
She hadn't stopped wailing, but she was starting to get hoarse. He gave her and eyedropper of water. The screaming gave over to sputtering and spitting, but she sounded better.
He cut the belt off with scissors from the grooming kit rather than try to manipulate the buckle. She growled and said something that made him think of acid.
He did the crease and tear trick again, releasing her arms. Then he sat her up.
She crossed her arms over her stomach and hunched over.
"Now, now, can't have that," he said. He didn't need the tweezers for her blouse. It was much looser and easy enough to pinch.
So with one finger on each thigh to hold her down, he simply pulled her top up and off. Her fighting and tugging were completely without effect.
"Well, one effect," he said softly. "You did make me slow down and enjoy it." She spat at him.
All that was left was the bra. It went the way of her blouse and her boobs spilled out. As soon as they did, he stopped tugging, the brassiere across her face.
The breasts were full, round and firm, with well-defined nipples pointing and poking up. "Oh, my," he murmured. "Well, it's confirmed. You ARE mature."
He couldn’t help reaching out with a fingertip to push each one, watching them wobble back when he let go.
She screeched and wrestled off her bra, then slapped his fingers. He laughed and played. Her nipples were rubbed and squeezed, and he didn't care that she was crying.
"Oh, be honest," he told himself, out loud. "I care a lot. Just not to stop."
They got perkier, he thought. Then he stopped and withdrew his hand. She covered herself, one arm over her nipples and a hand to her crotch.
He pinched the forearm and pulled, trying to estimate the size of her nipples against the palm of her hand.
Then she watched as he stared at the palm of his own hand. "Wow, those are HUGE," he said. "You're not only mature, you've probably had a litter or two. They get bigger when they're used, you know."
"Connard," she spat.
"Contrawd" he corrected. "But close! Very close. Good girl!"
He got up and looked outside the tent. The truck was gone. No one else was near. He zipped the door shut and went back to the table. She had managed to get one ankle free and was desperately trying to tug the other one out of confinement.
Traw just sat and watched. She paused when he sat down, then redoubled her efforts. When she was free, she looked up at him and moved slowly away from him.
"Too slow!" he said with a laugh, snatching her up in the air.
He took care to pin her hands to her hips and hold her with his fingers.
He played with her tits some more, watching them jiggle. "Tickle, tickle," he said, though she didn't seem to be ticklish.
Then he stood, unzipping his pants. His cock sprung into view, firmly erect. A little bit of precome was oozing from the end.
He held her against that and moved his cock with his free hand. "Just a little lube," he said. He smeared himself across her belly, feeling her tits bump down on the top of the tip of his cock.
He felt a little dizzy and noticed he was rocking back and forth. There was an instant image in his head that he'd fall, crack his head, and be found by the Scholar.
Pants down, cock out and the captive escaped... That wouldn't be good for his summer grade.
Traw turned so his butt was steady against the exam table, feet spread as far as his pants would allow. And placed the little woman on top of his cock like a bareback rider.
She squealed at the distance to the ground and fell forward, wrapping arms and legs tightly around him.
"Oooh, ssssso good," he hissed.
He tugged one ankle back towards his balls. It pulled her and his outer skin back. She held tighter with her remaining limbs, gasping in fear.
"Oh, baby," he murmured.
Slowly and carefully, he pinched a foot, an elbow, hips or thigh, even her head. Light tugs didn't pull her free but obviously terrified her.
Between the grip and the high, high pitched squeals, he was having a wonderful time.
Then the tugging stopped being exciting. It was good, but it wasn't... There was no more interest adding to his account, he might say.
He pulled her off and lifted her to his face. He held one finger out and placed her astride it.
"That's like where you were on my cock," he said. She twisted around to look at his face as he spoke, but held on tight.
He held up his other hand, finger in the same gesture, and licked his fingernail. Then he raised an eyebrow and said, "Do that. Can you do that?"
The dumb creature licked her own fingernail. "No," he said, pushing her head down. He demonstrated once more. She nodded and licked HIS fingernail.
"Do that, " he repeated. She instantly obeyed. Then he put her back down on his cock. "Do that," he said. She fell to and licked. And licked and licked and sucked and slurped...
He held her in place with one hand, thump over her ass and fingers clamped around his cock. His other hand stroked his balls, fingering the two hairless spots the other girls could never find.
"OOoh," he murmured. "Oh. OH!"
His clamping hand started to move her back and forth, faster and faster. She held on tight, digging her nails in.
After her chin bumped against the head of his cock a few times, she just lifted it clear and stopped trying to lick him. He slowed.
She started to whimper and plead. He wasn't sure what she was asking, but she was clearly begging.
It was almost as good as getting her to call him 'master.' Pressure rose in his balls and the small of his back tightened.
It always felt like someone was strapping an invisible saddle on him when he was close. So he whipped her back and forth on his 'belly strap.'
He finally pulled her down, squeezing her tight. She screeched and beat his cock head with fists. Little, impotent fists.
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"And then, he puts me in cage with clothes. And up with the cleaning." She shook her head. "At the college, I am added with other captures. I never see my lover again."
"Monique," Terri said, "he was never your 'lover,' not really."
Monique raised her hand and made the 'sorta maybe' gesture. "For French, he is no sort of lover. For the tourist? He is like the tourist in Paris, to me."
The others stared. "Big," she explained, "but with not the idea where to put it."
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.Tales of the Exchange