Theophilous asked me to post a story that he wrote, so I'm doing exactly that. Anyway, enjoy. I sure did. =)
Gulliver the Cruel
By Theophilous Bolt
Queen Jenirasa reclined upon her velvet and gold couch, high up in the royal cupola, and watched the sport before her with no small amusement. Her laughter was quite cruel. Her sense of humor was inhumanly vicious, and she felt a deep connection with the man before her, as it was he who gave her such cause for merriment. Her new confidant and conspirator, her finest soldier and unstoppable weapon, her monster. Lord Gulliver.
He was quite handsome for a monster... even moreso than his great-uncle who had washed up on Lilliputian shores almost a quarter century ago. This was fitting, thought Jenirasa, as she was far more attractive than her grandmother, who hosted the first giant, and built this palace in the hopes he would someday return. She was a kind and sentimental sort, as was the first Gulliver, and they got along famously. Jenirasa was a cruel and sadistic tyrant, and well... look at what he's up to now!
"You hate her, don't you?" asked the giant in a conspiratorial whisper to the trembling little serving girl in his right hand, peering meaningfully at the other one in his left. Even at a whisper, the deep and well enunciated voice echoed about the cavernous courtyard. The queen had caught them fighting, hammer and tongs, in her very own chambers. Her palace guard had delivered them to her guest for her evening's entertainment. The wench forgot her fear long enough to look daggers at her rival, and hissed, "Yes! Yes, I hate her more than anything!"
"Do you wish her dead?" asked Lord Gulliver.
"Yes! Oh, yes, I want her dead!" snarled the little woman. She appeared no larger than three inches tall to the giant, and her rival was a half-a-head shorter.
"Well, then, what shall I do with her?" asked the giant.
"Um. I.. I.. don't know, milord. But you should kill her!" replied the girl. Her rival quailed, a wordless noise of fright. Lemuel the Younger sneered and squeezed his fist about her, silencing her, taking her scream and leaving her with a breathless squeak. His steel-mailed fist clanked softly. "
Oh, kill her I shall. But how?" asked the knight in a silken voice. She could feel it in her chest.
"I don't know, milord... torture her to death?"
"Mm. Yes, that's a fine plan. What shall I do to her first? Come now. Be daring! Plot with me."
"Pull... pull off her tits!" cried the wench.
"Good! Very good. What else?"
"Break her arms! And her legs! Make her crawl at your feet!"
"Mmm, now you're in the spirit of it. And for the coup de grace?"
"Squash her like a spider!"
"Squash her like a spider! Excellent. You're quite cruel, little one. It's almost a shame I'm going to pull off those pretty tits of yours," said the giant with a wry, sarcastic smile.
"Wh... what?" asked the serving wench, trembling upon the black-laquered steel of the giant's armored hand. His other one let free the other serving girl upon his nude chest, below the ring at the center of the leather straps of the harness holding his shoulder and arm-plate to his body. Lilliput was nearly tropical this time of year. Lord Gulliver had decided to do without his breast and backplate, as well as his skirts and codpiece. His three-piece great-helm perched jauntily on a palace watchtower at one corner of the vast piazza. When it rained, he could roll the roof into place, but tonight the stars were bright, and the moon a sly sliver against the deep damson sky. Lord Gulliver preferred to keep his huge hands armored, as his tiny playthings sometimes came with tiny daggers, perhaps dipped in some poison or other. No more lethal to his immensity than a bee-sting from back in England, but a bee-sting was unpleasant enough. Same for his long, powerful legs... each was mailed in fluted and spiked gothic plate to the hip. It was tested to take a pistol shot, but the damascus steel, laquered coal black and inset with baroque gold decoration, was light enough where he scarcely noticed it. He also rather liked the feel of tiny people writhing against his armor, frail flesh against invulnerable steel. So, to entertain the queen, he went half-nude, and to entertain himself, he went half-armored.
He gestured to his slowly swelling sex, amid a neatly trimmed patch of black pubic hair, with a taloned little finger. The pinky of either gauntlet boasted a cruel steel claw, short, yet wickedly hooked near the end. The serving wench, her ribs bruised and panting for breath, scrambled down his satin-smooth skin, waded through his pubes, and threw her arms about his throbbing shaft like a drowning woman embracing a floating barrel. Lemuel Gulliver, named after his famous uncle, clenched his teeth and hissed as he felt the tiny, feminine body wrap itself around his massive manhood. His eyes alight with dark lust, he returned his attention to the tiny woman in hand, and drew a line down the front of the tiny woman in hand with a claw-tip, laughing as she squealed in pain and fright, her bodice and skirt falling away, a shallow gash from throat to hip slowly welling blood.
He took one of her fullsome breasts between his thumb and fingertip, and pulled firmly, if not swiftly, until flesh bruised and pulped and tore, blood cascading down black steel fingers. Her squeal graduated to a scream as he pinched her other tit, and twisted it from her tiny body. The giant winked up at the queen, who was nude herself, save for her long, black leather gloves, a jeweled ring over them upon each finger, and her knee-high boots, laced tight to her legs, kissed and licked by handsome courtiers too terrified of her power and her giant to refuse. She wore her golden crown at an irreverent angle, and was doing something simply unspeakable with the Royal scepter.
Queen Jenisara grinned back, and blew him a fond kiss. She moaned prettily when he broke the arms of the hapless little wench, and again louder when he snapped her legs like twigs, the third orgasm of the evening coming to a crescendo in concert with the sweet, sweet screams of her dread giant's victim. Wave after wave of physical pleasure poured through her as she watched the tiny. broken woman dropped to the soft carpet. She wriggled, mutilated and crippled, between the broad, steel-shod feet of Gulliver... his long, spike spurs each longer than she was tall. He raised one mailed foot above her, and let it settle down, slowly. The climactic screams and the final crunch helped extend the queen's orgasm for minutes on end.
The giant was reposing upon a mountain of cushions... he didn't even need to stand up to step on his first victim of the evening. Each pillow was as large as a peasant's hut, filled with feathers and upholstered in velvet. To a Liliputian, it was incomparable luxury, and to the coarser senses of the giant, it was plush beyond mortal comprehension. As was the feel of silken, feminine skin against his enormous cock... Liliputian women tended to the voluptuous, and their softness was unreal. Especially this one, who was kissing and lapping at his veined shaft for all her worth.
The queen peered down, and tried to frown, but wound up smirking instead. "We are jealous of that mere serving wench. Teach her not to covet a Queen's consort," she declared with regal indignation.
"Your highness!" responded Gulliver as he let his fist wrap about his cock, longer than two oxen back to front, and thicker than two oxen standing side to side. The surviving serving wench was trapped in his cruel steel fist, and he ruthlessly pumped her along his length, squeezing her tighter and tighter until she felt her ribs snap, one after the other. She screamed, the Queen's cruel laughter ringing in her ears as she felt herself slowly mashed into paste. Gulliver came as she died, red blood mixing with white cum, the latter far more copious than the former.
The Queen, never quite coming down from her third orgasm, writhed and moaned and put one man's eye out with her stiletto heel. Ladies in Waiting, unfortunate souls who managed to be too popular or unpopular for their own good at Queen Jenisara's court, true to their training, appeared from their hiding places as if by magic, swarming over the giant's still erect sex, swabbing away blood and cum from his skin and armor with towels wetted with perfumed water. After the giant was clean, and obviously enjoying the feel of soft, female hands working at his steel and flesh, the queen clapped her hands.
"I wish to be alone with my First Knight," she declared. The ladies disappeared as quickly as they had come, and the unblinded man at her feet crawled away. Gulliver reached in and snapped the other like a twig in his huge hands, and let the body fall to the marble flagstones far below. He reached back into the royal cupola to softly stroke the queen, and she kissed and licked his laquered steel wantonly.
"Conquest. The time is come. The fools won't bend their knee to Us, so We want you to exterminate them all. Wipe out everyone on Jondilaq, completely de-populate it, and the other lands will fall into line," declared the Queen. Gulliver the senior had only known of two islands inhabited by Liliputians. Gulliver the Younger was properly educated... there were easily two dozen major islands, veritable continents to their tiny inhabitants, and at least a hundred islets with a significant population of mouse-sized people. Queen Jenisara sought to rule them all... and with Gulliver, she would.
"Why," drawled Gulliver, "That means I'd have to kill at least three hundred thousand people. I'm not certain if there are enough hours in the day."
"Poor Sir Lemuel, if it's too much of a burden for your delicate sensibilities to bear, I'll spare you the duty," smirked the Queen.
"Wench. I should do you like I did those two," snarled back the Giant.
"But who would make sure your fodder wasn't laced with poison? Who would round up all the pretty girls you desire to destroy? Who would you flirt with, if no-one alive was above your station?" purred the Queen as she straddled his outstretched middle-finger, her slit leaving wet trails on the cool metal.
"Mmmm. You have a point. So, tomorrow, I'll put my steel and my wooden club in my little launch, and row over to tiny Jondilaq, and level the city and the towns surrounding. Actually ferreting out every last living Liliputian there sounds like a dreadful bore, so I hope you'll forgive me if I leave it at that."
"You drive a hard bargain sirrah, but We accept your terms. Now take me in your hands, I want to feel your tongue again..." commanded the Queen.
* * *
Lord Lemuel Gulliver the Younger watched as his conditerri were destroyed by the damnable French. Royal troops by the thousand simply marched on Genoa, and his hardened mercenary company was no match for them, outnumbered and ill-equipped to face gunpowder artillery. The cavalier's armor, the finest teutonic masterpieces money could buy, all spikes and batwings cunningly fit together, could withstand rifled pistol-shot, and he could simply laugh off matchlocks and arquebusses, but his cavalry's horses and his archers and his infantry could not. Brass canon firing four pound iron balls was too much even for the best Gothic plate. The Frenchmen were hanging mercenaries, especially English ones, and two hundred yards from an advancing company of rag-tag regulars with matchlocks, he leaped into a launch, leaving his horse and zweihander behind, and set sail for what he hoped was Venice, shedding his armor, stowing it in oiled leather sacks as he sailed farther and farther from shore, and well out of musket-shot. A fierce storm, weeks long, blew him southwest, west, southwest, west, out into the open ocean, and then beyond the horizon... to Liliput.
* * *
Lord Gulliver, formerly Sir Lemuel the Younger of Gulliver Company, didn't much miss his blade. He had adopted the big zweihander in part to tackle swiss-style pikemen, but it was too long and unweildy for proper slaughter. He had kept his club, a finely wrought oaken cudgel, and used it to brain footmen as he rode among them with its steel-studded fat end, the graceful, narrow neck tapering to a comfortable handle wrapped in leather for better grip with armored gauntlet. Standing on the ground, it easily reached his hip with the head planted in the dirt. This was his favored weapon, explicitly suited for his kind of fight, where he had every advantage over a helpless foe.
He employed it now to bash in buildings... wattle and wood houses exploded into dust with every swing. Even the port citadel, made of stone slabs half as tall as a Liliputian man, burst into a spray of Gulliver-sized pebbles at an idle bat. This flushed out his prey from their homes... the men, women and children of the port town, until they filled the streets to overflowing with a teeming mass of people.
Gulliver, despite his immense size and power, never stopped thinking of them as people. Each individual was a unique and special person, with someone who loved him or her, with hopes and dreams and emotions that were as real as any person's, every Liliputian was a candle of humanity burning bright. It gave him immense pleasure to extinguish each light. He strode forward, his steel-shod feet crunching helpless little bodies with great deliberation and care, the ugly or old simply snuffed out, the beautiful ones given special consideration and a slow, screaming death. Gulliver equated sex with death and suffering... making pretty people scream and suffer was his way of making love to the Liliputian Queen. He wanted her, he desired her, he dreamt of her night and day. She wanted carnage? Here. He stepped into a throng of young aristocrats, their silks and satins and leathers befouled by blood and bile and mashed meat that used to be the flower of Jondilaq youth, the giant laughing as they died, club sweeping through a knot of survivors, dashing them to pieces.
Here comes the defense. Archers, and some of the finest to be found in the Liliputian Lands, their equivalent to English Longbowmen. They hadn't discovered gunpowder here, yet, and as nitrate-poor as the land was, it was unlikely they ever would. So much the better. Arrows tinkled off of his thigh-plate harmlessly. Only one or two shafts could reach higher, and they were all but spent. They shattered against his steel, all the same. Lord Gulliver reached down and scooped up a handful of the tiny archers... he sneered as he imagined Queen Jenisare commanding her ladies in waiting to lick the blood from his armor. He pressed his clutch of victims to his armored chest, mailed palm mashing them against breastplate until blood poured along the fluted ridges, cascading from the edifice of his hard, masculine form in a crimson waterfall. He simply trod on the rest, not letting a one escape his crushing, metal boots.
The Duke's castle was no more challenge than the citadel. Boulders flung from trebuchets might as well have been pebbles tossed by toddlers. They didn't so much as scratch the glossy black enamel on his plate. He roared and swing his club against the battlements, two or three swings making a man-sized hole for him to stride through, stepping over the moat like it was a gutter. Mouse-sized knights laid into his ankles with warhammers and broadswords and battleaxes and picks... and were he they size, they might have pierced his pricey plate. As things were, they couldn't even chip the laquer to get at the gold-dust depictions of lurid baccanalia that decorated his shins and instep down to his toe. The plate mail was so well put together, they could not even winkle their way through the ingenious articulations at his ankles and feet to unprotected skin beneath. Instead, he watched them with amusement for a moment, industriously trying to kill a God, before trampling them all to red mush beneath his boots. He lifted each stomp high, until the knee was above his waist, and powered down his foot to splatter heroic knights for yards around, shattering the flagstones and spraying cobblestones like lethal missiles all about in the courtyard.
That's when he saw the Duke's daughters and their ladies in waiting standing in the balcony of the castle's highest tower. They were all ashen-faced, some weeping openly... he had stepped on more than one of their tokens along with the handsome little knights that bore them. His great-helm was of three-piece design, forged to fit his face snugly and to flatter his broad good looks. The helmet was like unto a roman centurian's, only the face was protected by a leather-lined steel mask that mirrored his handsome features, leaving only his lips exposed. His jaw was protected by the final piece, articulated so he could speak and shout at his forces with clarity.
Now he took advantage of his unprotected mouth for another purpose, dangling a stripped and squalling lady-in-waiting above it. Gulliver listened to her noble mistress plead for the pretty little thing's life before dropping her in, closing his full, wickedly expressive lips to seal her fate. He simply swallowed, guiding the shapely little body down his throat alive, to squirm and writhe her last moment in his belly.
"You know," the giant confided as he sidled up to the tower, his shoulder plate bashing in the side of it, leaving a fifty-foot gap in the spiraling stairway, stranding the women at the top, "I'm still hungry." The women quailed in fright, the giant leering at their pretty little screams. He selected another, and stuck out his tongue, lapping her into his mouth. Her muffled shrieks filled the air as he worked her about in his massive maw, eventually spitting out a saliva-sodden dress and undergarments. He broadened his smile, so they could see her behind his teeth, kneeling on his tongue, sobbing and begging for mercy. He simply tilted his head back, and swallowed...
"All right, now!" exclaimed Gulliver cheerfully. "All those who would lick my boots to spare their servants or mistresses, raise their hands!" Out of thirteen, five hands shot up. Three of them were ladies in waiting, two of them obviously noble-born. The giant picked them out of the crowd, and set them on the ground at his feet.
"Now, it may look like I'm not paying attention in the next few minutes. Rest assured, I've time to spare for you. Try to run from me, or slack off in your oblations one bit, and this... " Gulliver stepped on one of the ladies-in-waiting, letting her die beneath his mountain-heavy footfall with controlled grace, letting the little thing suffer and suffer and suffer under his steel tread, before grinding the last shriek out of her with a twist of his ankle. "... will happen to you. All of you. At once. Am I understood?"
Four tiny voices quavered "Yes!" almost in unison.
"Good. Now, lick my steel, cunts!" And they did, falling to their task with rare abandon. Gulliver turned his attention back to the eight who declined to worship him. He plucked a princess from their midst, the woman with the prettiest dress. His huge, gauntleted fingers stripped the soft satin from her slender frame without mercy, until her warm, nude body rested upon a cool steel palm. With a snarl, he dragged a pinky-talon down her exposed flesh, slitting her writhing, squalling body open. He smirked, and fished the talon-tip about in her guts, slowly drawing out her intestines, laughing as she squirmed and screamed, not realizing she was already dead. Her struggles grew fainter and fainter until they ceased altogether, and he simply dropped her corpse to the ground, splattering his little boot-lickers with her blood.
The next, he was even crueler with, first stripping away her clothes with his clawed finger, and then flaying her alive, using careful incisions along her ivory-pure skin before pulling it from her in one piece, He set the flayed and agony-maddened woman back into the balcony, where the other ladies lurched away from the bleeding, doomed creature with wild screams. He swung her skin from his fingertips by her long, lustrous hair before choosing another victim...
* * *
Ten hours later, as the sun slowly set in the west. Lord Gulliver had shed his extra plate again, discovering that even the clothyard shafts of the tiny archers could not prick the sensitive skin of his scrotum, and shattered harmlessly when aimed at his legs. It was frightfully warm, so he shed everything except the shoulder-arm-gauntlet platemail assembly, and the long steel shanks of his metal "boots", stretching from his feet up his powerful legs to the apex of his hip on the outside, his crotch on the inside.
He had destroyed every major city and town and most of the villages on the island of Jondilaq. He could stride across it in a scant two hours, and the road systems built by the Duke were very, very good. Simply follow one until it came upon a town, bash in the buildings, pick out the pretty girls for torture and squash the rest outright. The giant would have completed the conquest hours earlier, if he didn't stop so often to have one of his prettier captives tease his tree-trunk sized cock into orgasm while he murdered their countrymen with sick, sadistic games. Now that the sun was setting, and now that he was sure the Duke was one of the men he had flattened very early in the morning, he took his only surviving heir, the newly minted Duchess of Jondliaq, out to Queen Jenirasa's barge. The monarch folded her opera glasses and gave a meaningful look up at her giant. "Well?"
"Say it," prodded the giant.
"No!" shouted the Duchess. Gulliver, having shed himself of his leg-armor to wade out to the Queen, still had his arm and gauntlets on. He used his steel fingers to wrench her left arm from its socket.
"She loves me..." The right arm, next. "She loves me not." The left leg, with a spray of blood. She'd never have the chance to bleed to death. "She loves me!" The right leg, with a twisting, slow and evil crunch. "She loves me not..." As Lord Gulliver took her arm between his huge fingers, the mauled woman broke, sobbing and shouting, "I give! I give! I surrender! You are empress! You are... no! No! Nooooo... Aieeeeee!"
"She loves me not," pouted the giant, flicking the Duchess' last good limb to the sharks. He took her by the head between thumb and forefinger, and slowly pinched it into a red mush, letting her despoiled body drop into the sea. "She loves me!"
"We do love you. Come forward, First Knight, lord protector of Our Realm... put that big prick where I can touch it," said the Queen... said the Empress... salaciously. Gulliver obliged, and the orgasm that came with the touch of her leatherclad fingers blew three ladies-in-waiting over the rail and into the clear, blue water.
"A mere island duchy, but it's a grand start! Tomorrow, I shall have you exterminate a continent for me to re-populate with my own people..." said the empress, sucking the giant's cum from her fingertips...