The giant-killer's giantess
By Elascan  elaw3670@gmail.com 
Life made them enemies, lust will make them...


Chapter 1: The Giantess.

The legion is gone. Left, maybe; wiped out, probably. Left me wandering
through some forest I don't know the name of. All who wander are not lost, but
I am. I'm not worried. I'm zen. I'm a hardened soldier. And I'm damned good at
it. When I swing my sword, men get the point.

I pick my way between two low growing pines. I have trekked some distance
since last I had to pick my way between bodies. Half of them were wearing the
same colors as I, some few the bodies of my friends; most the bodies of
strangers, men I have never spoken with, never met; such is the life of a
mercenary. I cannot remember who we were fighting.

A sound pierces the chill morning air, high pitched; the neighing of a horse.
The dumb animal wandered as far as I did: all the way to the bleak unknown. He
sounds considerably less at ease. This is serendipity. A horse feels like a
huge step in the right direction. I track the neighing. Luckily, the
frightened animal does not soon cease. Minutes later I spot it in the middle
of a swale. I walk down. It's a big, brown gelding. Good for the fast pursuits
of the cavalry, not so good to ride a distance. But in the middle of a strange
forest I'm not about to wait around till a more suitable mount comes strolling
along.

The animal snorts and backs away as I come upon it, sending the heavy barding
into an explosion of clinks. I grab its reigns, try to calm it. I'm not
exactly the gentle type, was never cavalry. Luck is with me: a few gentle
words and a little stroking later, the animal calms. Maybe it, too, recognizes
the lack of options.

I strip off its barding. It's useless to me now; its weight, a hindrance. When
I'm done, I stroke the horse some more. It seems to have accepted my presence.
I get the feeling it just wants to be on its way, as do I, on the way to
anywhere but here. I remember the dried tomato slices in my sack. Horses like
fruit, right?

It seems to, eagerly accepting my offer. When it's finished, its whinny seems
to speak of satisfaction. I pat it on the head, grab its reigns, and steady
myself. "Here we go, boy."

I'm just about to hop up when a voice tears through the air. The horse
flinches. I do not. I am a soldier, and I am the best at what I do. Instead, I
whirl, accompanied by the sound of screeching metal. When I'm facing the other
way, my longsword is in my hands. Standing atop the swale is a sight I'm
unprepared for. Its skin is a dark grey. It stands as tall as two men. Those
are not what really throw me.

It... is a woman. She has a woman's shape, too. Her hips are wide, her
shoulders slim, and her bosom, heavy. She wears what looks like a bearskin,
but as a two piece; one covering her private area and the other barely
covering her bust. Her breasts are the size of small shields, and must weigh
half what I do. Despite her womanly frame, she is heavily muscled. Even from
here I can see row upon row of abdominal muscle around her belly button. Her
arms are thick, her biceps and triceps fully defined even in her relaxed pose.
Her legs are as impressive as her bust. They are as thick for her size as a
dwarf's, making hers tree trunks. Her thighs are wider than I am. I've seen
giants before. They are, naturally, a prized addition to any mercenary army.
And they are grey, like she; and stand as tall as two men, like she. But
giants aren't beautiful. Giants are nasty, feral looking things; appearing as
much beast as human. She is stunning. Her lips are full, her eyes large and
almond shaped; her hair a shining, straight waterfall of raven to the small of
her back. Perhaps she is a half 'giant. No, they are barely larger than a man.
Whatever she is, she is something I have never seen.

When I whirl to face her, she takes half a step back. She seems taken aback by
something. She doesn't seem scared. I cannot put my finger on the exact nature
of her odd reaction. It doesn't matter. She recovers and steps forward,
clenching her fists and staring hard. She calls out, "Leave the horse." Her
voice is paradoxical: high and sweet, even sexy, but many times louder than a
human's.

I smile. She doesn't scare me. I've faced giants on the battlefield. Sure,
they are a natural disaster in a fight, often taking whole ranks of soldiers
with them to the grave. But I'm no normal soldier. I'm the best. I know how to
fell a giant. For some coin on the side, I once put down an entire pack
(terrorizing a village along the border of some forest). There are simple
tricks to felling giants. Not really "tricks", just things to know. First,
giants may have size, but size means velocity. They don't switch directions
very well. Most men will flee in terror from a twelve foot tall charging
giant. So this weakness often goes unnoticed. I stand my ground. I bide my
time. When the moment is right, I charge past them, or dart beneath them. I
rely on the fact that their velocity will pull them past me before they can
get whatever enormous instrument of destruction they are lugging along down on
my head.

Second, giants may have thicker skulls; heavier bones; and larger layers of
muscle guarding their vital organs, but many of their major arteries run just
beneath their skin, same as ours. This includes the femoral artery. Can you
guess where it runs? Yep, right along the thigh, which happens to be at sword
height. Giants have big, strong hearts; they bleed out much faster than we do.
I've watched it happen, wiping blood from my blade, many times.

The third and final thing to keep in mind: the larger blades, long sword,
broadsword, even claymore mean little against a thick skinned giant.

I sheath my longsword down my back; draw my shortsword from my belt. It's made
of frozen gold. Frozen gold, 100 times rarer than the mundane variety, is a
special metal with a very useful quality. It creates an electromagnetic field
so strong it actually draws and holds air around it. This manifests a very
useful effect for a bladed weapon. The air within the blade's field (about an
inch or so around the metal) is much denser than the rest. But it has the same
amount of heat, so the blade is always dead-of-winter cold, sheathing it in
ice. A smith mastered in frozen gold knows how to shape the blade so the field
around it tapers wickedly, making its ice edge sharper than a shard of glass.
When the blade makes contact, the sheath shatters, but the metal is so cold it
grows right back. A giant has very thick skin. Thick skin is of little value
against a sword of frozen gold.

I start to shout a biting retort, but my words catch in my throat. I'm
intimidated by her after all. She has the one thing in the world that still
intimidates me. It's not her size, not her grey skin, not her muscles. It's
her beauty. I, behemoth of the battlefield, god of war, am laid low by a
beautiful woman. What surprises me most is that I'm smitten by a grey woman
who stands twelve feet tall. Her beauty is so pronounced it transcends her
unnatural proportion. I clear my throat, shifting uneasily. Finally I find my
voice, "Are... you a half-giant?"

She makes a face, "Do I look," she motions to her body; her hands sweep all
the way down, but my eyes stop at her chest, ", like a 'half' anything, to
you?"

I shrug. "I don't know what it is that you look like, my lady. I have never
seen..." Wait, did I just call a giant in the forest, "my lady"? I feel the
blood rush to my cheeks. She laughs. But she puts her hand to her mouth and
stifles it, her dark grey face turning the greenish color of her own blood. I
get the feeling she meant to laugh heartily at my foolishness, but what came
out was the delighted giggle of a school girl. She seems equally surprised by
her reaction to me.

She shakes her head, "Enough. Get away from the horse. I'm warning you for the
last time. You're lucky you're even getting a warning, human. Your kind gives
none. I must be in a generous mood. Better take advantage, little man."

I smirk. "Look, miss," why do I keep referring to her like she is some maiden?
"Look, miss, this situation may seem to heavily favor you, a lone human
warrior versus a full giant. But I am no ordinary soldier. If you weren't a
savage brute, if you didn't live in a wayward woodland, you'd have heard of
me. I tell you this to clear you of your ignorance that you might live. I'm
taking this horse. You're leaving. Good day." I instantly feel bad about the
"savage" part. I cannot believe I actually feel that way. I wouldn't, saying
as much to a human, and she's a monster, at least I should see her as one,
though obviously I do not. This woman must really be getting under my skin.

She looks hurt. The more we talk, the more I get the sense she feels the same
way I do, and is just as lost on what to do about it. "Savage?" Her voice is
soft, barely above a whisper.

She shakes her head, "Leave the horse, now, human; last warning."

I set my feet and sigh. Am I really about to kill her? Strange, but I've never
asked myself that before, not in 43 winters, 28 as a disciple of war. We just
stare at each other, not a morsel of fear to divide between us, but something
stopping each from charging the other. Finally, she steps back, assuming a
more relaxed posture. "My children have to eat."

I grimace, "Well, they aren't eating a horse. It's a noble animal, not food."

She shrugs, "Noble animals taste the same as wild ones. My children won't
complain."

"Go chase a deer. You'll not have a steed for dinner."

She smirks a little, "Have you ever tried to run down a deer?" She shows me
her bare hands.

I make no reply.

This time she sighs. "Let's get this over with." She charges. Her thigh
muscles pump powerfully, clumps of ground tear away in her wake. Limbs snap
like twigs as she smashes through them. But I can't take my eyes off her
breasts. They bounce around wildly. They heave high with her every step,
falling the length of a longsword. I tell myself to concentrate. I've stood
motionless while an entire horde of bloodthirsty barbarians, howling like the
host of hell, waving bloody axes the size of my torso, hurtled themselves
toward me. No matter what sounds my ears hear, my mind is always the same. If
you put a sound to it, it would be the peaceful trickling of a slow moving
brook, or simply the sound of nothing. The sound of absolute zen. It's the
sound of my senses sharpening, my muscles growing taut; my mind, body, and
spirit sharpening to a razor's edge. It is the calm before the storm that is
me. But against her I cannot gain my plateau of perfect mind. I cannot ready
myself. I can only stare at her breasts and long to have them in my mouth. Not
that I could hope to fit them. I wonder if I could fit one of her areolas. I
wonder how big they are.

She is almost upon me. I realize with a start that I spent the entire time she
was charging staring at her bouncing tits. They are well over my head now. Her
chiseled stomach, her belly button and just a hint of her groin area where her
stomach tapers down to her legs are right in front of me. Instinct pushes me
to action. She comes by swinging a low punch. I'm too fast. Blackwood armor is
the only kind I ever wear. It offers less protection than similarly priced
mystical metals, like mithril or adamantium, but is far lighter; light as
wicker. My armor is enchanted to move easily through the air. When I wear it
I'm quicker than I am naked. I surprise her, as I do all of them, by lunging
forward. I twist sideways, slipping between her leg and incoming fist. I hear
the air displaced by her mighty swing as her fist sails past my ear. Her
strength is enormous. She would have caved my chest in with that blow. I smell
her womanhood. I expected it to smell foul, overpowering. It's nothing of the
sort. It's as mild as a noble maiden's. As soon as I clear her I twist in
mid-air, bringing my sword in a wide arc toward her femoral artery. To land
the cut I aim without looking. I don't need my eyes to aim. I know exactly
where my sword needs to go to cut her life away. But can I do it? My sword is
almost to the point of no return. The life, set to drain from her marvelous
body. The sword continues. So close, now. I split seconds; I try to justify it
to myself. She would have killed me. I think she would have. But am I sure?
What if she was pulling her punch? It would be hard for me to recognize such a
thing. You don't see many pulled punches in war. If I kill her I'll never
know. A hair's breadth stands between my sword and the end to her beauty, the
end to her wonderful smile, the end to her giggling. I would sigh again, if I
had time.

I pull the sword down. I pull it down with all my weight, with all my might.
Its new arc brings it down to her heart-shaped calf muscle. I let go to break
as much momentum as I can. She screams as it bites into her sexy calf. I
tumble end over end, unused to the improvised movement. Pine needles settle as
I whip around frantically, trying to locate her, the world still spinning. I
need to know how bad her cut is. I spot her calf. To my relief, only the ice
managed to bite into its beautiful contour. An inch is a nasty amount of lost
flesh, even for a giant. But at least she'll be able to walk.

It seems she can do more. Grunting, she springs up quickly. She spins to me,
her hair whipping around to cover part of her face. She sweeps it back with a
hand. Her teeth are gritted, but she charges me. As a lifelong warrior, I
admire her toughness. She seems as strong mentally as physically. I just sit.
I cannot bear to hurt her, so what more can I do? As she nears me, I draw my
longsword, then my throwing axe, then my dagger, then my other dagger, and
finally my gauntlet knife, tossing each aside.

She grabs me by the throat and lifts me easily as a loaf of bread. She slams
me hard against a tree. My vision begins to go black. With considerable effort
I fight the darkness back. With both of my hands I grab hers. I struggle to
pry it of. It feels like trying to lift a house. She squeezes harder. I look
down; her angelic face is inches from mine. The ground seems miles beneath me.
Her eyes are angry, and somehow, sad. She speaks, "Why did you... why..." She
seems unable to finish. She just sets her full lips and squeezes harder. I
feel her hand crushing my throat. My head feels like it's floating. I see
stars.

A single tear runs down her cheek.