The Last of the Micrins (Chapter 13)

(Head's up: Things get steamy between a giant couple during these forthcoming chapters, so fair warning if that's not your thing)

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Mark felt more thoroughly drained right now than he’d ever felt in his life, and certainly worse than he’d ever thought possible, while still mired in exactly the same hopeless circumstances as he had been for the past three days straight. Unluckily, he was among the first group of six micrins that Diana had preyed upon and taken captive alive. But instead of meeting a swift and sexualized end at her whim like so many of their kin already had this week, Mark and his equally-terrified comrades were preserved in her cupped palm and then rolled down the dizzying slope of the giantess’s fingertips, until they’d tumbled into the glass maw of an enormous jar prison containing a thick syrupy golden-amber substance, which they soon learned was some kind of oil. Fortunately or not, the glop was dense enough, as opposed to a straight liquid, that the stranded micrins were able to float with less-strenuous floundering than would’ve otherwise been required to avoid drowning in water. This fact was of little comfort to the speck-height survivors, though, especially as they watched Diana putting the lid back atop the jar – allowing only a thin crack of oxygen to penetrate the gooey space – before marching away and leaving her guests detained in that warm milky coconut-scented swamp of fluid in a jar on her bedside table.

After getting over their initial hysteria, the micrins decided they couldn’t just lie here, either waiting to be lethally submerged in oil, or for the giantess to return and finish them off. Mark, the most level-headed of the pack, orchestrated several fearful but optimistic attempts to reach that crack between the jar lip and lid above. They tried stacking on one another’s shoulders for height, but came nowhere close; they tried creating enough momentum to make waves in the golden gunk that might carry them higher, which also didn’t work; they even tried bathing themselves in enough of an oil coat to try sticky-palming their way up the glass walls like bugs. This, too, miserably failed.

It soon became clear that the micrins were absolutely stuck here, and were only wasting precious energy that would be better spent prolonging their possibly-doomed lives by treading oil. With a heavy heart, Mark advised his brethren to stay as calm as they could and focus on controlled strokes to keep their heads above the surface, until they had a better opportunity. The next day, they then had to pass along this same passive spirit to a new batch of victims that Diana dumped into the jar, at first arguing with the panicked newcomers, before those folks too succumbed to the heartbreaking reality of their capture. That process eerily repeated another four times over the following days, with the crowd of live micrins in the massage oil-well growing more populous each time that the towering homeowner uncharacteristically kept them intact and conscious. Several more endeavors were made to break out when she was gone during the day, given that there were now more than thirty survivors bobbing together in the sweet-smelling muck, but even this increased manpower came to nothing. Though if Mark and the others had only known the way in which they’d finally exit the jar, they might’ve simply chosen to let themselves sink into the goop and be mortally consumed.

On that third day, right when the earlier-arrived micrins were essentially sapped of strength and contemplating whether the giantess just cruelly intended for them all to die slowly and anonymously, rather than impactfully by her own hand, the pattern was broken. Diana came back, not to sleep or transport another palmful of captives, but with a stranger just as colossal as herself following behind. It was a man: massive and strapping, good-looking, with long jet-black hair, raw sculpted musculature, dark eyes, and a dusky-tan complexion. All three-dozen micrins floating in the oil jar were given speechless pause, briefly dumbstruck by the scope of both the man and woman standing together. Somehow, even before Diana came near the bedside table where she’d kept them all for these past energy-dredging days of goo-sinking torment, all of them communally sensed that the second giant’s arrival also heralded an end to their suffering in here. Which was technically true, even if not for religious or supernatural reasons, as some of the traumatized micrins believed. Mark, viewing their situation with sober logic, had grasped that in fact these beings weren’t really gods, but instead living things which just so happened to share the anatomy of micrins and not their proportions – to a degree that Diana’s near-omnipotent supremacy allowed her to do anything she liked with the near-decimated race who’d so unwisely taken shelter in her personal lair. And now, she was about to exercise that power again.

“I can’t tell you how badly I needed this, Gale. I should’ve called you sooner,” Diana purred, with multiple meanings so thick in her voice that even the micrins detected it. She ran her fingers over her shoulders, hips, and chest, never breaking eye contact with her titanic guest. “I’m just dying to loosen up.”

“Well, I’m here now, and we’re going to get you taken care of, however you need it,” the man boomed with a smile, his tone matching the giantess’s seductive verve. He rubbed his palms together, while his gaze followed the journey of Diana’s teasing hands across her sultry well-toned physique. “Go ahead and get comfortable. Don’t worry about a thing now. I’ll get you fixed right up.”

“Oh, I know you will,” she temptingly sighed. Dressed in a silky violet robe, Diana needed only tug the belt and draw back the hem for the garment to fall around her feet, leaving her comfortably nude in front of Gale. Seemingly aware that the man’s eyeline was even more obsessively trained upon her figure now, every step she took on the way toward the bed better pronounced her shapely assets, like an understated dance meant to attract him closer. Mounting the mattress, she cozied herself in a prostrate posture that left her backside teasingly exposed. Only then did her gaze drift to the oil jar, while her come-hither smirk gained a secret shade of erotic mischief that made the entrapped micrins’ spines chill. “I know you’ve got your kit, but… I just picked up that bottle over there, and I was really hoping to put it to use. Something tells me it’s going to make this time feel even better than usual. Would you…”

“Of course,” Gale gladly agreed.

Lumbering toward the bed where his apparent client was now nakedly relaxed, the giant reached for the jar and scooped it up, all without ever tearing his attention away from Diana. The micrins within were finally awoken from their stoic survivalist paralysis by this turbulent shift in their previously-stagnant jail, seeing Gale’s fist wrapped around the glass and feeling the oil slosh around their weightless bodies like a monsoon tide. In rightfully renewed horror, they shrieked and cried for relief as they were tossed every which way within the slow-moving golden fluid, and that howling fervor only worsened when the lid was cranked away, followed by the stomach-turning inversion of the container. Massage oil spilled toward the giant’s waiting palm, carrying with it all three dozen micrins, who went unseen by their oblivious liberator. Dollop by dollop, the incredibly-small survivors were rationed across different regions of Diana’s down-facing body, with some folks sprinkled along with honeyed puddles onto her shoulder blades, the small of her back, her thighs, her calves, and her soles – then violently kneaded to death upon whatever physiological province they were marooned, as the session got underway. All the while, approving murmurs crooned from her lips, while her body rocked in slow-motion answer to Gale’s caressing handiwork. Mark himself, alongside several others, was deposited right onto the ample curvature of the giantess’s bountiful left-side bum cheek.