Clitty on the Edge of Forever

The first time you met Starlight Glimmer in person, you instantly knew you weren't enough of a man for her.

Granted, you haven't been much of a man for anything... or anyone in your twenty years of floundering around in this strange ballroom dance called “life.” An awkward childhood spent embodying a frail beanstalk of a nerd had ultimately produced a five-foot-and-three-inch punchline of an adult. And that's not covering all the cringey, bony parts of you that just recently finished smoothing out. It took the last two years of high school to endure the braces required for finally... finally fixing your damnable buck-toothed overbite. But, while your mouth straightened, the muscles of your limbs refuse to grow and at least half of your teenage freckles still remain lingering on your boyish face.

Needless to say, you haven't been able to score one with the ladies. Not that this surprises you any. All throughout your developing years, you had grown used to incessant teasing and ridicule from the softer side of the gender pasture: “Nice shorts, Featherweight! Did your Mommy buy those for you?!” Diamond Tiara used to chant across the school yard. “Pfft! Look at those arms! My pet hamster could wrestle Featherweight to the floor!” Silver Spoon would add. “Where's your crown, today, Zipporwhill? Oh. Shoot. It's you, Featherweight. My bad,” Scootaloo once said. Well, maybe more than once.

What you lacked in physical prowess and... well... a Celestia-damned spine wasn't very much compensated by any significant dollop of charisma, either, which simply buried your hopes of being a cool kid in those cruel, crucial years. Sure, you got your cutie mark sooner than most of the other schoolmates in Ponyville, but that amounted to little more than acting as Diamond Tiara's wage slave photographer. In fact, you had worked your wings off for the entirety of junior year to help her with some “personal documentary” bullshit. In the end, she kick-started a young modeling career off your material, and you got nothing but a swift kick in the ass.

The last three years of your life have been spent in woeful seclusion. You've drowned yourself in your photographic hobbies... in lonesome flights over the boughs of Everfree, snapping pictures of nature. But with each passing month—with the vestiges of time being painfully plucked from you like feathers off your dinky wings—you feel the opportunity for true bliss slipping away on greased lightning. And it's the same “true bliss” that every damnable young man your age obsesses over... but most of them have quite likely conquered.

You are a virgin—a pathetic, noodle-limbed, thin-wristed, raspy-voiced pantywaist of a virgin. What's more, you've remained untouched, unloved, and unclaimed at the ripe age of twenty. Twenty. Princess Luna on a bike, in just fifteen years, you'll be declared a “wizard,” and not of the legitimately awesome Court-of-Canterlot kind. From the way things look—flipping through the scant memories of your lonesome life like the pages of a photo album—you can tell that you'll get to that pathetic point of ultimate failure within a blink. And why should you think otherwise? Nothing else has gone the way you've hoped for in this life. Your cold-hearted parents kicked you out at age eighteen and now you've forced yourself to eke out a paltry existence among three other roommates, cooped up in a shitty litter box of an apartment along the lower fringes of Fillydelphia. You make a living (if you can even call it that) wandering around the urban sprawls of Equestria, taking boring stock photos for ten separate magazines—all of which you loathe and don't pay you shit in bits. You've considered taking up pizza delivery—what, with your wings and all—except that you're mortified at the idea of women laughing at you at the door and taking the pizza with no tip.

No tip. No... best not to ever... ever place yourself in some magical porno movie situation. Even in fantasy. For there is barely any “tip” to give. Mother nature's cruel prank on your height and limbs also extends to below the belt, and each night you limp into the shower you have to fight the urge to cry over how little there is to see when you gaze down at your manhood... boyhood... infanthood? Does it even deserve a nickname? It can barely drum up the duty to dribble—even after a full afternoon of chugging Dr. Pony. Real men have the cannonfire to shoot for the stars. You know this first-hand from enough red-faced communal changing sessions before and after P.E. in the boys' lockerroom. But as for you? It takes a trickling brook to do a mite's hair of movement to whatever paltry protein resides in your chestnuts. And the other tubes don't fair much better either. Your so-called “best friends” stopped going to amusement parks with you because you had to spread your morning sarsaparilla evacuation over the course of lady-like bathroom breaks every five fucking minutes.

There's a reason why Diamond Tiara and so many other girls laughably called you a “sissy” in high school, and part of you almost felt enough self-loathing to adopt that masochistic moniker.

But—thank Goddess—another kink rolled into your headspace to save your life.

And be honest with yourself. It's the only happy place you've been able to afford, no matter how absurd. No matter how silly. No matter how impossible to acquire from the daily motions of the winged photographer's Fillydelphian grind.

Ever since you were a little boy—years before you got your cutie mark, or pubic hair for that matter—you've had this insatiable fantasy over doing it with a giantess. Even when you didn't know what “doing it” involved—and all things considered, you still don't—you've had these regularly visited mental scenarios of being embraced, being smothered, and being cherished by female specimens who somehow towered hundreds of feet above you. It wasn't enough that you'd be cuddled by an Amazon or some super muscular volleyball player. No, you wanted a woman who was gargantuan, continental, larger than the very definition of “large” in the Equestrian Basic Dictionary. You wanted a partner who could dwarf the honeymoon bed itself... who could be the bed itself. Her navel would be the mattress and her bosom the pillows. No, fuck that. Her breasts would be mountains and you'd be a poor, hapless speck of dust trying to paddle a canoe across the sweat of her heaving midriff after you've somehow impossibly pleased her.

Yeah, that's the shit, a whimpering and spasming you thinks to yourself, seconds after rubbing your four inches off and gazing lustily at the ceiling of the bedroom, wishing the spinning fan was replaced by her winking womanhood, slowly lowering towards you like a falling moon, carrying with it a tidal wave of lubricated arousal that will drown you...

Drown me... oh please blessed Goddess just drown me...

It's no small surprise that you've long suspected that you were going insane. Sure, perhaps—just maybe—there'd be some rational explanation to all this. Years of being comparatively smaller than everyone else and being consistently teased for it undoubtedly created this... microcosmic complex where you could only imagine being the submissive bitch to some incalculably strong partner. But—while that all makes sense—there's still this assertive portion of you... a pathetically tiny yet unfathomably burning spark that kicks all that crap in the teeth and declares—no, dammit—it's simply a fine taste for macrocosmic beauty.

Because how else can you truly worship the sheer majesty that is a woman? Shapely legs... milky thighs... heaving breasts and pert nipples and fluttering eyelashes and pursed lips and high-pitched melodic sighs...

All of that deserves to be exalted to the highest pinnacle of comprehension. All of that deserves to be elevated to a platform of grandeur where gravity itself simply cannot limit the scope of infinite admiration. Even if your body and frame and manhood are all measured—your heart simply is not.

All your life, you've felt the precious possession of a soul that could give... simply give forever, especially for a goddess who deserved it. Or several. Or none—even if you could just be allowed the grace to admire them from afar. Given the resources of the universe, you simply could—and would—adore every inch of a woman for eternity, over and over again if you needed to, and how much more heavenly would it be if each and every one of those square inches were spread to square kilometers or square miles or square astronomical units of supple flesh to explore and areolas to scale and hot dripping pussies to spelunk for days and weeks and months and—

Holy goddam shiet you just spurted again fuckkkkk..

Without all the psychoanalysis, this obsession basically amounted to you fantasizing during lonely nights in bed, imagining that you had hooked up with a spectacle of a goddess who would gladly—and willfully—let you live out a week inside her lacy brassiere or wiggle your way beneath the satin band of her panties or even slither down the nylon channel of her pantyhose—if only to be closer to her... to be pressed up against her... so that she became your entire horizon... a forever that you could embrace.

Forever... much like never... both plausible outcomes to such a schoolboy fantasy upon the broken precipice of your stubborn, immutable virginity. Seems fitting that—in a life framed by eternal solitude—you would inevitably imprison yourself to a fetish that was far from plausible.. even if not impossible. The fleeting beats of your heart have clung onto that latter comprehension. There's always been a lot of magic in Equestria, and it's been used for far stupider things than getting a twenty-year-old pervert's pebbles off. But it is still possible.

Isn't it...?

Because of this thought alone, your obsession has refused to die. Over the course of several years—and especially in the last few months—you've found your fantasies reaching a boiling point. You started researching every book, magazine, and periodical you could get your bony hands on in the Fillydelphian library, struggling—hoping—to find some mention in Sorcery Monthly and other subscriptions about a sustained magical spell that had been written by some godly court wizard somewhere that could allow your fantasy to become a reality. You recalled how years ago Starswirl the Bearded reportedly returned from Limbo, and that put a flame of hope in your heart that at least someone out there was intelligent enough—or hairy enough—to get the job done... even if the job only mattered to one lonely and pathetic twenty-year-old who could barely handle his own dick more than a flashbulb camera.

Alas, nothing has ever turned up.

As such, these lonely trips turned into languishing affairs. Spurred on by boredom and self-loathing, you found yourself casually perusing the Classifieds sections of newspapers found in the same library... if only to torture yourself with sneak peaks into what actual adults with actual sex lives actually do with their actual time.

And it was on one fateful afternoon, sandwiched between yawn and sighs, that your eyes stumbled upon a week-old listing in the Classifieds...

...and you found it. You found her.

She didn't give a name at first. Simply a post office box and the vague promise of swift communication upon a reader's initial response. She could just as well have been an overweight pregnant swamp hydra with Everherpes, for all you cared. What got you... what grabbed you by the turgid mistletoe was the very substance of her ardent inquiry:

Thirty-two-year-old magic-born dominant bisexual female with over a decade of sexual experiences seeks eighteen-to-twenty-five-year-old submissive het/bi/pan male to be shrunken to the size of four centimeters (or less) for the purpose of romantic/physical interaction. Male MUST be a VIRGIN. This is IMPORTANT. Also must be okay with a magical spell that will make him frighteningly tiny. Bonus points if he also enjoys flying kites.

Even to this day, your earlobes tickle with the memory of your pounding heartbeat upon having read that. On that life-changing afternoon, your eyes poured over the words in the Classifieds again. And again. And again and again. You pinched yourself to see if you were dreaming, but the rigidity of your outstretched wings in the open view of the rest of the library sobered you up to the reality of the moment. You recall panicking—wondering if Diamond Tiara or any of her cronies had somehow tracked you down in Fillydelphia to perform the mother of all pranks. Or—perhaps—you just realized that you had been living all that time in a solipsistic nightmare and the universe was collapsing until it assumed the shape that you had always wanted.

But, you simply did not imagine what lay before you. Like your unshakable fantasies, the article refused to go away. Perhaps—you thought—it was a prank. After all, who in their right mind would post such a thing? Whoever this Jane Doe was, she could just as well been asking you to bring weapons for a trip back through time. There was no safety in even humoring the thought of pursuing such a thing. None guaranteed whatsoever.

And yet—as you reminded yourself in yet another woeful sigh—what was there about you worthy of keeping safe? What was left to preserve? You hadn't anything to lose... except your virginity. And—by hook or by crook—this was your one golden opportunity to pursue such a venture... even if it ended in Everherpes at the claws of a pregnant swam hydra.

So... within two damned days, you scribbled forth a letter, sent it to the address listed, and wandered home flustered and anxious from the post office, hating yourself for being so pathetic that you actually manifested your obsession into reality—and shared it with an another anonymous person, no less. Sure, it's always sucked having no outlets, but who in their right mind could actually... would actually share the same fetish as you? And with the vague promise of somehow making it happen through magic, for that matter? You felt stupid. You felt shame. You hated yourself and wanted to die.

Then—that night—you humped the pillow while imagining you were trapped between the dueling labias of two mountain-sized lesbians and you fell asleep with a sigh and a stain in your boxers.

Seventy-two hours and a laundry job later, you about ruined your underwear again—because she responded. She did... and she had a name. She gave it—perhaps as an olive branch: Starlight Glimmer.

Starlight...

Glimmer … …

A name that pretty couldn't be real. It sounded too angelic. Too magical. And yet—the stationary she used carried with it a meager glow. It was a light spell—something that Cheerilee had once taught you and the rest of the classroom about long ago. The letter could only have come from a high tier Equestrian magic wielder. No earthen or flighty shiet—this was someone magic-born who could wield a wicked stone of legit wizardry. If it was still a prank by this point... why would someone go through all the effort?

Then there was the fact that this “Starlight Glimmer” wasn't necessarily rushing things, which made it seem even less like a scam. In the letter—which was very eloquently written—she briefly described how surprised she was that someone had actually responded to her bit in the Classifieds... one that she had evidently forgotten having posted.

“To tell the truth, I was somewhat inebriated at the time that I submitted it,” the woman had written—if she was in fact as estrogenical as she claimed to have been. “You must understand—I've grown sick to death of so many play-partners turning out to be egotistical pellets of hot air that I must have gotten drunk and then turned to the Classifieds of all things in desperation.” She dotted her i's with crooked smiling faces afflicted with sweatdrops. It was insanely adorable, and your heart leapt with each line of prettiful, girlish penswirls that carried on like a papery dance. “But I'm actually intrigued that I got a response out of it whatsoever! You sound like a sweet young man, Featherweight, but you were a bit vague in writing about yourself in your response. Not that I can blame you. Heheh.” She even phonetically wrote out her chuckles. “If I were you, I wouldn't have taken the ad very seriously either. But I assure you: this is a very real proposal, using very real—and serious—Canterlot magic. I can only guess that you're a soul out there who very much wants a specific dream to come true. Well, I want a dream of mine to come true as well. So, at the risk of sounding desperate, could you be so kind as to tell me more about yourself? I promise that I'll keep it between us, and I do hope I'm not coming across as too obsessive about all this.”

You remember wanting to sob and giggle all at once.

Obsessive?

She considered herself to be obsessive?

Blessed Celestia, could there actually be a true blue other out there for you? And an experienced, magical opposite to boot?

Like a schoolgirl with her heart all-a-flutter, you hugged the glowing letter to your chest and fell back in bed, smiling drunkenly to the ceiling.

What would you write back to her? What would you tell this “Starlight Glimmer?” What would you possibly share with her?

How about everything?

Which is precisely what you did... in no less than twenty-four pages. And you immediately hated yourself after sending it because you just had your once-in-a-lifetime-chance-at-losing-your-virginity-to-a-macro-obsessed-goddess-named-Starlight-Glimmer-and-you-wasted-it-through-perverted-one-track-mind-selfish-neckbearded-correspondence.

Even now, you gasp at the recollection of how close you came to fainting when you got a response—within twelve hours. Now that was truly magic. The envelope was practically on fire with Canterlot enchantment. Your eyes and body shook as you read through the forty pages of obsessively-scribbled heart-to-balls commentary:

“Oh my Celestia, are you KIDDING?! It feels GREAT when someone's alive and wriggling inside my cleavage!” Trembles. “If you must know, erogenous zones react far better to small-sized stimulation. I personally think women were built for the utilization of this spell.” Shivers. “Barely four inches when erect? Pfffft... please, Mr. Featherweight, I like my partners under four inches—TOTAL. Why should I care about the planck at the end of a speck? So long as the speck is worshipping me.” Downright convulsions. “So... you don't think kites are 'lame?' Whew. Good to know. Uhm. No reason, really. Heheheh.”

Even to this day, every written word and paragraph caresses a warm wet heart that you had long forgotten you possessed. It just took Starlight to bring it back to the surface—to breathe light into the innards that you had long thought dusty and useless. Not once did she ridicule you or poke fun at any of the revelations you textually blurted in the last letter. In fact—in some impossible way—it almost felt as though your awkward, nigh-pathetic confessions somehow made you... more endearing to the woman. If nothing else, her words certainly showed more enthusiasm than the previous response.

What's more, you got to learn a lot more about what she had to... provide. The spell was very much real—or so she insisted. What's more, she wasn't the one to invent it, although she did add a few alterations that improved its casting. The spell was first invented over a hundred years ago, and since then it was used by a small niche of like-minded... lovers, to put it lightly.

What does the spell do? Well, through the utilization of a patented Clover the Clever sigil, it reduces a person's size by an unimaginable percent. But the niche of practitioners—the Collapsing Cabal, as they enthusiastically labeled themselves—agreed on no smaller than one single inch. To shrink anyone smaller was potentially catastrophic and risked legitimately losing someone. In addition to size-change, the spell is buffered by a “protection aura” that—over the course of forty-eight hours—physically guards the spell recipient from pain, suffocation, asphyxiation, structural damage, and physical duress—although the lattermost element is a matter of interpretation, based on one's personal acclimation to the process.

Such magic could only be used sparingly, which made the Collapsing Cabal a very niche group for very niche fanatics of all things giant. The dominant members had to choose their partners very-very carefully—as well as the time with which they chose to “embrace” them. And—in Starlight's case—none of her partners as of late have been enough to... well... satisfy her. To what extent they failed, her letter did not specify... nor did she attempt to educate her new pen pal on precisely what it was that she sought from a quote-unquote “inexperienced virgin male.”

What Starlight did do—however—was provide a photograph. A photograph of herself. The contents of it—in every beautiful pixel—has been lovingly tattooed against the surface of your eyelids ever since. Skin like lavender terry cloth. Hair like liquid silk—dawn purple with aquamarine bands. Eyes that resemble deep blue pools, peeking from just above girlish dimples as she smiles. A purple chakra stone dotted the center of her forehead. It was dim when the photograph was taken, but already you could imagine it emanating with a bright glow of her inner magic-born essence.

And while Starlight's face is charmingly youthful, the rest of the femme's body is a fully-developed battleship of buxom woman. Gently sloping breasts—the kind that ardently fill into healthy C-cups with ample room for wandering eyes to get lost in the delicious gap between—or so you can assume from the meager window afforded by the blouse she's wearing in the photo. Her hips are wide—almost playfully so—but only to give way to legs that make faded jeans look like a goddess-damn work of otherworldly geometry. It's clear to you from just that one photograph that Starlight is a tall... tall woman.

I almost wouldn't even need a spell, you've thought more than once, probably high. In all of your years of fantasizing about giantesses, you rarely ever planted a real-life face on them—or at least a face that you could identify. Sure, once or twice, magazine spreads have played a minor roll. Celestia or Cadance may have even graced the female continent's crown, but that was only because they're both deified enough in waking reality to somewhat deserve such exaltation.

Now that you've won yourself the photograph of a real woman who's tangentially interested in “you,” you've found yourself keeping it close by the bedside as you go to town on yourself at night, your mind conjuring all the million hidden pockets and niches on Starlight's body where you could get lost—and some moister than others.

But then—in the inevitable shower to follow such a sweaty event—you sober up to the final message thrown onto the lastmost page of her response to you: “Is it too much to ask for a photo of you in return? I mean, so long as that doesn't frighten you, Featherweight. At least not too much. Heeheehee.”

Those. Goddess. Dayum. “Giggles.” She took the time to write them all out. How could you refuse such awesome onomatopoeia?

It was probably a bad idea, but you decided to reciprocate in your response to her. In truth, it wasn't hard to scoop up a pic of yourself. Not that you're one to be narcissistic, but you've gotten into the habit of taking multiple selfies and then stapling the photocopies—shrunken—against the spreads of supermodels from scavenged fashion magazines. Such was enough to maintain the physical illusion of an improbable fantasy for you to masturbate to over the past few years. One of the advantages of being a professional photographer with a macro-lens (ho boah).

And it's not like you went completely overboard either. You sent your pen-pal a relatively “modest” photo of yourself, just like the one she sent you—minus the veritable boob-window. You're not that big of a fan of how your hair looked (it was before you ditched the stupid bowl-cut your parents forced on you) and you're certain in hindsight you should have shared a pic where you were wearing pants instead of shorts. Also the feathers on your wings looked positively molty on that day. But—ah well—it's the picture that you chose.

And what a curious thing it was to receive a response—within six hours this time. The enchantment on the envelope was so fresh that it nearly lit up the entire apartment and the gutters of Fillydelphia outside as you opened the parchment with shivering fingers.

Lo and behold: “Oh. My. Celestia. You are just... too... adorbs!” Several hearts—all with smiling faces. “Why didn't you mention that you were flight-born?! That's so cool, Featherweight! And it explains the name—teehee! Did you take that before you turned twenty? Please say you're still just as cute and petite. I mean, not that it matters—heehee—but it's really really sweet all the same. And such a nice smile!!!” Exclamation points—this time with floral patterns. “Uh. Yeah. I've got a better letter to write back in response to yours, but that's gonna take a while. I just wanted you to know that I think you're really really precious. Honest. Whew. We both really dodged a bullet on this one, huh? Ugh, that sounds super vain of me to say. Anywho, you'll be hearing more from me soon!”

You cried a lot that night—but for once it wasn't for all the usual reasons. This was the start of something beautiful, you felt. For this whole thing had danced well beyond “hope.”

And—all things considered—you weren't wrong. The letters continued, oftentimes with rambling discussions that have brought you to previously unfathomable lengths of contentment and comprehension. Her flattery continued—which has been delicious in its own right—but she hasn't been all compliments. The delightful truth is: Starlight Glimmer is a remarkably complicated woman, and everything she's said of you has simply been the cusp of an intricate disguise that is rapidly unraveling, revealing a remarkable web of emotions, needs, and fears. And you've gradually discovered—in how her enthusiastic platitudes mirror your own—that such complexity exists in you. Perhaps it always has... which makes being a macro-obsessed virgin less “terrible” in hindsight, something you never once thought you'd have the strength to admit.

Until Starlight. She's given you that strength—in that she's given you yourself... an excuse to embrace that which previously has brought you confusion, frustration, and even shame.

And then—like a spear straight through the froth of ocean surf—she stabs you with something that you had forgotten about from the start:

“So, I've figured out a place where we can meet and talk in person. It's a really swanky restaurant on the edge of Fillydelphia called Steel Stables. Since I'll be passing through town on a research trip, mayhaps we can finally meet!”

Just like that, you felt all of the confidence and contentment and renewed sense of respect drain out of you like a deflated tire. Everything was fine until everything became real. She was ready to meet you?! Now?!? Evidently—it wasn't to engage in the spell or do anything giantess/shrunkener related. But... she just wanted to meet you? Regular, normal, skin-and-bones pathetic virgin you?!?!

And then it dawned on you. This had to have been a prank. She wasn't Starlight Glimmer—an attractive thirty-two-year-old magic-borne domme waiting to crush a subordinate little wanker into protein sobs. All of those heart-shaped hand-written accents and smiling exclamation points could have been just as doctored as her photograph, and what truly awaited for you on the outskirts of Fillydelphia was a Neighgerian prince itching to rob you of your kidneys and then some.

And if she has been as real as you hoped—as your heart has wept in sweet release for—then just what in the shriveled blue fuck were you actually gonna do about it? You were going to go meet up with her?! In person?! That was the most personable way to be personal! Starlight would look at you once and immediately take back all the flattering, heart-massaging bits of poetic mirth she had woven about your so-called “sweet” self.

Or if you somehow were something that she desired, then the poor woman had to have been sick to the bone to desire such a pathetic thing. Poor creature—she likely drummed up the whole “Collapsing Cabal” thing in her deluded, schizophrenic mind and then projected it onto you for the ultimate let-down.

Or maybe—just maybe—you're as much of a moron as you've ever been, and it's high time you took a stand and embraced something priceless now that it's in front of you. Never look a gift girl in the mouth!

In other words... don't be a pussy, bro... … … even though the word “pussy”—in metaphorically referencing the vagina—should actually equate to “strength” and “resilience” given the savage punishment that poor abominable animal of womanhood receives in life, both in and out of porn—b-b-but that's not the point! Don't be one of those, bro!

This has more or less been what went on in your head—a place that's been far more dramatic ever since Starlight's letters kindled a hidden spark lying deep within. Maybe she's always meant for you to pick yourself up by your bootstraps. Maybe she's just a cougar-in-training setting up a trap for her first kill. In any case, second-thoughts be raped-to-death, you had a virginity to slay, Celestia-dammit.

You said good-bye to your roommates... who are we kidding—you shrugged them off without saying a word and flew off towards the east end of Fillydelphia one sunset by your lonesome.