D.X. Machina’s GTS-o-Rama

May 19, 2017

Perception of Doorways, Chapter One

Filed under: Uncategorized — D.X. Machina @ 3:38 am

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August 13, 2013

DÍA, Issue Six: Her Vast Attentions

Filed under: DÍA — D.X. Machina @ 1:01 pm

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July 14, 2013

A Series of Short Experiments: Issue 1

Filed under: A Series of Short Experiments, DÍA — D.X. Machina @ 7:23 pm

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June 24, 2013

DÍA, Issue Five: The Prisoners’ Dilemma

Filed under: DÍA — D.X. Machina @ 5:22 pm

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May 9, 2013

DÍA, Issue Four: The Day After

Filed under: Uncategorized — D.X. Machina @ 6:32 pm

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April 9, 2013

DÍA, Issue Three: The Belly of the Beast

Filed under: DÍA — D.X. Machina @ 3:25 pm

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March 26, 2013

DÍA, Issue Two: The Good Cop

Filed under: DÍA, Uncategorized — D.X. Machina @ 2:15 pm

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March 6, 2013

DÍA: Issue One: The Innocent Prisoner

Filed under: DÍA — D.X. Machina @ 6:54 pm

So I decided to make a graphic novel.

Do I know why? No. Why do I do anything? I’ve been literally making macrophile stuff for the internet for 17 years, which is longer than some of you who are too young to be reading my stuff but old enough to want to have been alive.

So as I said, I decided to make a graphic novel, but there’s only one hitch: I can’t draw to save my life.

So I used Daz3D instead.

The results so far have been interesting, and if nothing else, I’m having a lot of fun playing. And it’s let me get started on a story that I’ve had bouncing around in my head for a couple of years, so there’s that.

And even if you think it sucks, it’s free, so what do you care?

So sit back, relax, and enjoy the first issue of DÍA. And don’t worry; as per usual, I care about character development and scene-setting, so the action doesn’t really start until page 16, but it does exist, and it will ramp up in future issues. Swear.

D.X. Machina

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June 30, 2012

How Way Leads On To Way, Chapter Three

Filed under: Aphrodite Stories, How Way Leads On to Way — D.X. Machina @ 6:49 pm

Three

“The safest road to hell is the gradual one — the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts.”

–Clive Staples Lewis, British Theologan (1898-1963)

It was three days before Tom grew back to normal.

Of course Tom grew back to normal. It would be ridiculous to think he wouldn’t. He could do so at any time. And while he didn’t really want to do it — he wanted to simply die, to have God switch off his life like a light switch — eventually he realized he would have to. Just to get situated.

He wasn’t going back to his life, mind you. He didn’t think Rose was bluffing, and even if she was, he had no intention of calling said bluff. The life that he’d led was over. He could never go home.

But that didn’t mean that there wasn’t a future for him. There was. He had the stone. Yes, his first experiment with it had gone disastrously wrong. Yes, he’d destroyed his relationship with Rose, his life, everything.

He had the stone, though. He had more than one fantasy. He could use it to live them out. If his life was over, he might as well enjoy the half-life he had left.

Besides, over the three days he spent hiding in the bushes of the suburban cul-de-sac, he had the opportunity to see a few women who reminded him of why he had been fascinated by shrinking.

There was the late-twenties MILF who stayed home with her young kids. They’d almost found him twice while they played outside. The second time, he’d managed to work his way underneath the chair where the monolithic mother sat; her bare legs were magnificent, her bare feet awesome.

There was the pair of teenage sisters who went out tanning in their backyard one afternoon each wearing skimpy swimsuits. The older one was in her late teens, maybe a senior or college freshman. He felt okay about ogling her. The younger one…well, he’d ogled her anyhow. He’d done so from a distance, at the base of their fence, but even at a fair distance they were mammoth, and he tore himself away from them with difficulty.

There was the slightly older mother who was gardening, and damn near found him as she pulled weeds. From the shadow of a variegated hosta, he’d watched the tremendous woman, still radiant despite being in her late thirties or early forties. As she bend over, her breasts swelled and dangled above him. He found his throat was dry as he looked at them; he wondered what it would be like to be in her bra.

So on the third day, he snuck into the older mom’s house. Not to get into her bra; he had bigger plans. Her husband departed, her kids departed, she departed, and he was alone in the house.

He worked quickly. He grew himself to normal, and dove into the shower, scrubbing quickly. They would be working, he knew. The kids would be in school. Still, he showered for less than three minutes. Then he rushed into the master bedroom, and grabbed shorts, a shirt, and a pair of underwear; there was no time to debate the niceties of wearing another guy’s clothes. He wanted to be at least somewhat presentable.

He grabbed his wallet, the stone, and his keys, and jammed them into the pockets the shorts were a bit loose, so he cinched them with a belt. He then purposefully strode out of the house, and began to run, quickly, down the street.

He didn’t care where he was going, not at the moment. Absently, he kneeled down by a storm drain, and tossed his shirt and pants and cell phone into it. He would get rid of his wallet soon enough.

But for now, he had some purchases to make.

He walked on for a good half hour before he got to a main road; he walked along it for another hour before he found what he was looking for — a big box store. (more…)

June 20, 2012

How Way Leads On To Way, Chapter Two

Filed under: Aphrodite Stories, How Way Leads On to Way — D.X. Machina @ 11:36 pm

“What by a straight path cannot be reached by crooked ways is never won.” 

                  –Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, German Poet (1749-1832)

In the dream, Brenton was shouting at the screen like a viewer at a horror movie. “Don’t go in there! Look out!” But Tom was not listening. He was creeping through the dark, up against Rose, moving inexorably toward her truly spectacular ass. The slumbering form of the woman-mountain radiated warmth and a sweet, intoxicating scent that Tom knew he’d sensed before, but never so strongly.

He slid his hand along the soft skin of his object of desire, brushing his hand over the unending tapestry of skin. He reached her hip, and leaned up against her behind, planting a kiss upon it before he continued on to the point where it sloped away into her thigh.

His eyes had adjusted now to the dim light filtering into the cavern of Rose’s bedsheets. He looked up to the top of her thigh, and noted that the leg on top was set forward some distance, and there, in the space between, he saw the bottom border of her labia.

He paused. He paused for a good minute, staring up at the cleft of her pretty pussy, trying to decide what to do next. He probably should turn around now. Go to her head. Get her attention. He could make up a story about being shrunk; it wasn’t like he hadn’t read a macrophile story or two. He could probably convince her that it had happened when he came over to visit; yes, that seemed likely to work. He’d shrunk in the entryway. Sure. He could tell her that. She’d probably believe him.

Or he could climb up her thigh, and look at her vagina more closely.

He knew he might never get this chance again if he went to her. She would help him, of course, if she thought he was in trouble. But would she ever put him here? At this size? Here was a girl he had wanted for years. And her pussy was a short climb away.

He began to ascend the thigh.

He was drawn like a moth to the flame. He could smell her, feel the heat radiating from her. He ascended along the thigh where buttock met it, pulling himself inexorably along, grabbing at the skin as if it were a rock wall.

And then he was there. Even in the dim light, he could see the bottom of her labia, two lips poking out between her thighs.

He reached for them, and slid his hand between them.

What happened next was unexpected by Tom, to say the least. He had read a ton of stories on giantess sites, and unconsciously or not, those stories informed what he thought would happen. Which is to say, he didn’t think much would happen. The objet d’amour always would remain unaware in those stories until it was time for her to pay attention.

Rose was not an objet; Rose was a woman. She reacted the way most of us would react if, three-quarters of the way to being fully asleep, we suddenly felt our gentials being played with by something mouse-sized.

The world exploded, near as Tom could tell. Rose rolled, and Tom found himself flung through the air by her sudden movement. He bounced twice, and fell off the cliff of the bed, falling some distance down and landing on a soft, warm surface — the belly of Rose, who had in her sudden panic rolled completely out of bed and onto the floor.

Still dazed, Rose looked down at her stomach, and saw the tiny man — Tom — sitting there. He’d been the one poking her. Not a mouse. A Tom.

Tom looked up at Rose, looking down at him bemusedly. He started to raise a hand in greeting.

But he stopped when her eyes began to narrow.

The goddess whose stomach he rested on recognized him. He could see it. She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to. The look she gave him told him everything he needed to know about what she thought.

“I…uh…I was shrunk, and…uh….”

He stopped. He had been of a mind, briefly, that maybe he could bluff his way through. Claim he’d been shrunk, claim he’d just been trying to get her attention.

But he could see it in her eyes. She was mortified. And she was furious.

When she finally reached for him, as he’d always dreamed she someday would, she did not grasp him gently.

Indeed, Rose had to fight the urge to simply deposit him in the toilet and flush.

Instead, in short order he was dumped unceremoniously in a drawer in her nightstand. He found himself unable to speak as she shut the drawer, not even gazing at him.

Some time later, through the wood, he thought he heard the sound of her crying.

*  *  *

It was deep, deep into the night when the drawer finally opened again.

He couldn’t explain why he hadn’t used the stone to change his size. He could have shrunk to nothing, so she couldn’t find him. He could have grown to full size, and exploded the nightstand in an awesome display of the power he wielded. But he had done neither. He had been too in shock to even contemplate it.

She was dressed, now. Nothing fancy; a shirt, some shorts. Her enormous eyes were red with the tears she had cried.

“What the fuck were you doing, Tom,” she said. It was not a question. It was an accusation.

“I’m sorry,” Tom said. “I didn’t — I didn’t mean to….”

“You didn’t mean to stick your hand in my vagina? No, Tom, I’m not buying that one at all. What, did you shrink, trip, and suddenly fall into my vagina? Nope.”

“I just…I was shrunk, and I…you were so….”

“It isn’t a fucking complement, Tom!” she said, eyes cold. “You didn’t ask.”

“I just….”

“You. Didn’t. Ask.”

“No,” he said, quietly. “I didn’t.”

She stared down at him. “What really sucks, Tom, is that I actually liked you. If you’d asked…I might have said yes.”

Those words wounded him far more deeply than anything ever had.

“I was shrunk….” he said, lamely.

“I know; you got White’s Disease, evidently. Sucks for you. Maybe you found your way here heroically. Maybe you were going to get my attention or something. And if you had done that, I would have taken care of you.

“But you had to go and rape me. That I won’t forgive.”

“I didn’t!” he cried, but she stopped that line of attack cold.

“What do you call sneaking into someone’s bed and stuffing your hand in someone’s pussy without her consent, Tom? A friendly hello? You bastard. You don’t deserve to live, you know that, right?”

Tom couldn’t answer her, because it had finally penetrated his skull that she was absolutely and completely right. What he had done in service of his fetish…what kind of man was he?

“I’m not going to kill you, though I probably should. But I’m not going to make life easy for you, either. We’re going.”

“Going? Where?” Tom mumbled.

“I didn’t catch that, but assuming you’re wondering where we’re going, the answer is simple: somewhere else. Somewhere where you can’t find your way back to me, ever again. And before you think you can find some other friend to assault, believe me, Tom, I’m going to let everyone you’ve ever met what happened to you, and what you tried to do to me. If you ever poke your head up in civilized society again, I will press rape charges.”

Tom thought about arguing with her, thought about telling her that she was bluffing, that she had no proof. He could grow back, go home, tomorrow when she was telling people that he’d raped her while shrunk he could simply call her a liar, say it never happened, it was a delusion.

But he looked up at her giant, wounded visage, and he knew he could never do that. He had hurt her so badly already. How could he hurt her more?

And so when she shoved him in her purse, he did not fight. During the several hours in which he felt the car in motion, he did not attempt to escape. And when she dropped him, alone, in the high grass in some bland suburban cul-de-sac, he did not run, and he did not return to normal size.

She dropped him on the ground, paused only a moment, and headed back to the car, and as dawn broke, she drove away.

“I’m sorry,” Tom said quietly, and then he began trudging through the shoulder-high grass, looking for a place to lay his weary head.

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