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About to be Vacuumed by Giantess Amber
🕑 Added 2025-04-14 04:46:53 +0000 UTCThis was a request by one of my subscriber tinies for their free monthly commission, enjoy :3 Dont forget as a subscriber you get free monthly commissions, for more info check the tier descriptions and or dm :3
You wake to a world that’s wrong, your skin prickling against a cold, splintered expanse that bites like frozen gravel. Your heart thunders, each beat a frantic pulse, too fast, as if it could shake your frail frame apart. The air is a heavy veil, thick as honey, pressing against you with a cloying weight, smelling faintly of polished wood and dust motes. You’re shivering, heat seeping from your body into the chill surface beneath, your breath sharp and shallow, tasting of stale air. You claw at your mind for a name, a memory, but find only mist—fragments of equations, constants, the sterile hum of a lab. You’re a scientist, you think, numbers and physics woven into your bones like threads of steel. Beyond that, there’s a flicker, you remember a girl with short red hair, glasses, a name—Amber—tied to this place somehow, a face that feels recent, though how or why slips through your grasp like smoke. Maybe she is your roommate, or your girlfriend, or maybe she is why this is happening, the reason you are small. You try to think as hard as you can to remember what happened, but no matter what, you just cannot. Maybe you should look for this girl you think, maybe she will be here to help soon.
You push yourself up, arms trembling, your palms scraping against ridges that feel like jagged cliffs. The ground isn’t ground—it’s wood, a hardwood floor, but stretched into a surreal wilderness. You’re tiny, a speck. Your fingers trace a groove, and you estimate: if you were once tall enough to touch a door frame, you’re now small enough to fit inside a needle’s eye—about a tenth of a millimeter, no bigger than a grain of dust. Your weight feels like nothing, a whisper lighter than a single mote, as if you could float away on a sigh. The math grounds you, a lifeline in this alien reality.
The living room sprawls into a hazy abyss, a space that might span a few strides now vast as a desert, its edges swallowed by a blur of light and shadow. Your eyes burn, straining to focus, the world fracturing into smears of glare and gloom, as if light is too big for you to hold. The wood’s grain looms like a canyon, deep enough to lose you in its shadows, its edges rough under your fingertips. Dust speckles the terrain—grains tower like boulders, some as tall as you are, others giants you could never scale. You step forward, and the floor’s scratches claw your soles, tiny imperfections scraping like pebbles, each a hurdle in this endless plain.
Time feels heavy, each moment dragging as if caught in syrup. Your heart races, stretching seconds into eternities, every breath a slow tide in your chest. Thoughts cascade, sharp with fear, but your body lags, every movement a wade through air that clings, thick and unyielding. You could lift a dust grain heavier than yourself, your strength sharpened, but speed is a traitor. Crossing a single step of this floor would take ages, your legs too short to conquer the vastness.
The cold bites deeper, your skin no shield, heat fleeing like a spark in a storm. A breeze stirs, faint as a whisper, but to you it’s a gale, strong enough to hurl you across the plain like a leaf. You crouch, nails digging into a wood fiber, its splintered edge a lifeline, its scent sharp with sap. The floor hums, a vibration tingling through your bones like a distant drum. It’s a voice—human, female, warm but warped, too vast for your ears to grasp. Amber. The name sparks your memory again, faint and far away details you struggle to grasp: You vaguely remember that she’s a college freshman, an intern at some laboratory, her red hair cropped short, glasses framing a freckled, kind face. You don’t know why she’s still in your mind and barely anything else, but she’s here, one of your only tethers to your previous life.
The vibrations grow—footsteps, each a slow tremor that shakes your world, drawn out in your heavy time. You turn, and she’s there, a colossus beyond reason. Amber towers like a mountain, her bare feet a landscape of valleys and ridges, each toe a cliff wider than a river, its faint warmth a heat you’ll never reach. Her purple skirt ripples like a storm cloud, swaying in languid waves, and her sports bra stretches across her chest like a banner on a distant peak, too high to see clearly. She’s humming, a melody that vibrates the air like a soft quake, her face a blur of red hair and glinting glasses, cute but oblivious, her eyes scanning a world too big to include you.
You wave, arms flailing, but you’re a speck, your hands too small for her gaze. Even if she knelt close, you’d be a dot, barely visible against the floor’s chaos, lost to her eyes beyond a hand’s breadth. You scream, throat raw, but your voice is a ghost, its pitch soaring beyond human ears, a silent cry swallowed by the air. A new sound tears through the silence—a roar, mechanical, apocalyptic, like a beast waking from slumber. Amber drags a humongous machine, its mouth a cavern wide enough to devour a valley, a gaping maw that could swallow you whole. You realize it’s a vacuum cleaner, its pull a hurricane that could erase you in a heartbeat. It’s close, maybe a meter away—a distance you could never cross—but it glides forward, steady and relentless, closing the gap in moments, each second stretched into a lifetime in your racing mind. You run, heart hammering, legs churning against air that fights you like water, each step a crawl across the wood’s ridges. You’re fast in your own way, your strength coiled tight, but the world is too big, your strides too small to matter.
The roar swells, air rushing past in a tornado, its scent sharp with dust and static, stinging your tongue. The suction tugs, a force that could lift your featherlight body, snatching you into a chaos of darkness and dust, your frame too frail to survive the storm. You scan the floor, eyes watering, and spot a shadow—a crack between floorboards, a chasm deep enough to hide you, its edges a cliff you could tumble into, like falling from a rooftop. You sprint, the wood’s splinters shredding your feet, each grainy ridge a blade against your skin, the air’s weight a chain on your limbs. The vacuum’s maw looms, its breath a fist around your chest, the roar drowning your gasps, filling your lungs with the tang of metal and ozone. You dive, sliding into the crack as the suction peaks, your body scraping against fibers that tear like thorns, their woody scent choking you. The world shakes, the roar a deafening pulse, but you’re wedged tight, safe in the dark, the cold embracing you like a shroud. The vacuum passes, its gale fading, and you gasp, chest heaving, the air stale with dust and resin, your skin raw, trembling with cold and fear.
Amber’s hum drifts on, unbroken, a melody that’s both solace and torment, her voice a warm thread you can’t reach. She doesn’t know you’re there, doesn’t see the speck fighting to exist in her world. The floor quakes faintly as she moves, her footsteps slow ripples in your heavy time, each one a reminder of her vastness, her toes alone wider than lakes. The vacuum’s drone circles, a distant storm, then stops, silence falling like a heavy curtain, thick with the scent of polished wood and wax. She’s done, the room clean, and her footsteps fade, a final tremor carrying her away, leaving you alone in this crevice, a prisoner of the floor.
You’re alive, but trapped, your body shivering, heat slipping away faster than you can hold it, the cold a knife against your skin. The crack is a fortress, but also a tomb—too deep to climb, its walls too steep for your strength. Somewhere out there, a crumb might sit, a boulder too heavy to move, or a droplet of water waits, a lake that could trap you in its clingy grip, its surface a mirror you’d drown in. Amber’s face lingers in your mind, a kind smile you’ll never reach, a beautiful woman who will most likely never see you, and you wonder what thread ties you across this impossible gulf, your true stories, a memory you can’t place. You lie back, the wood’s chill seeping into you, its grainy scent filling your lungs. Your mind spins with the physics of your plight—air too thick, breezes too strong, your body too frail to endure. You’re a speck in a room too vast, a fleeting thing in a world that doesn’t see you, but you’re still here, for now, plotting your next move, wondering how or why you are here.
