SAND CASTLES

Scott Grildrig

17-Dec-1998

Five years of Connie's life faced the ocean: vast, sand colored, soaring and

elegant, and she hated it. She hated the years lost working on it. She hated the

changes working on it created. She hated the loss of trust it represented. She

hated that what she once loved was something she no longer loved, that someone

she once loved was someone she could no longer love. The frustration was a knot

within her that tightened every day, until the tension was so overwhelming that

it numbed her, left her unable even to rail against the unfairness of it all.

So she stalked out of the hotel in her red sequin dress, click-clacking angrily

down the walkway, tripping over a spot where the beach encroached on the

concrete. She kicked off her high-heel sandals, flung her small purse into the

pool and headed out into the moonlit night…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Hey, Charles, great grand opening. Where's Connie?"

"Walter! Emma! Welcome! Connie's busy right now. You know how it is. She can't

seem to stop working on the place."

"Well, if you spent more time with her…"

"Heh, Emma you're precious. When I see Connie I'll let her know you're here."

"That might not be soon."

"Thomas! Welcome! Have a look around, see the place."

"Oh, I will, Charles. Was hoping to get a tour from the architect, but we just

saw her heading down to the beach."

"It's the crush, Thomas. You know how Connie is about crowds."

"Must be pretty bad, you going to go get her?"

"Oh, Thomas, I wish I could, but you know, this just isn't good timing."

"I'll go get her, Charles."

"Heh, thanks Emma. I think we should give her some time to herself. She'll be

fine."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The ocean caressed the beach, stroked it with long curling waves that spread

foam flecked water up the glistening sands before gliding back out into the

black depths. Connie stood at the very edge of it all, looking out into the

night sky, looking but not really seeing. Her fingers clenched and unclenched as

the numbness within her fought with the passion of her plight. She wanted to

cry, but her eyes remained dry. She wanted to scream, but her voice remained

silent. Far behind her she could hear snatches of noise from the party: a voice,

a laugh, a brief moment of music. The sounds tugged at her, sharpened the

conflict within her heart. The party was as much for her as for the hotel. But

she couldn't be there. Couldn't stand to be paraded about by him. Couldn't bear

the thought of him using her as he had always used her, as he was doubtless

using her now, even though she was no longer there. The numbness wafted through

her, cold, bitter, uncaring. And because she could think of nothing else to do

she walked forward into the ocean…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Charles smiled, he joked, he laughed, and it was all a veil over his boiling

rage. Five years of his life he had given to the bitch. He'd coddled her,

polished her, made her into what she was. Damn her insolence. Damn her prying.

If only she'd finished that trip he'd set up for her, instead of coming home

early. If only Maxine hadn't been so demanding. Damn her. Damn both of them.

He'd built the wonder of the Caribbean, this hotel would revolutionize the

industry. Its subtle but enchanting theme was perfect for the region. His

thoughts took on the cadence of his spiel, flowed and unfurled with all the

grandness of poetry as he enumerated the features of the place. Maxine had been

captivated by the scale of the vision, by the boldness of its design. That

concern about the weather of the region had proved irksome, but he'd wooed her

back to the notion, and they had a nice fat policy to protect them from any

unforeseen changes in the climate. He chuckled to himself. Connie could learn a

thing or two from her. Maxine was a lady who knew exactly what she wanted. Now

that the project was done, maybe he could work something out with her. She was a

useful ally, though it would be a shame to lose Connie, after all the time he'd

invested in her. Charles made a mental note to himself to get Connie something

nice. A new car ought to settle her down…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The ocean was strong and gentle, attentive and uncaring. Its undertows pulled

her away from the beach, and its waves pushed her back. Her dress swirled around

her, flowed with the moving water, dragged on her body in a disturbing way. The

numbness within her was not so deep, nor so despairing that she was ready to

throw her life away, and she fought back against the embrace of the sea, lifting

herself from the water, staggering a little as she stepped back up the slope of

the beach.

Her dress hung heavy on her body. She clenched her fingers in the sopping

material, bunched it together, gathered it into her fingers and lifted it up her

body, removing it, not caring if anyone saw her. She was past concerns about

other people's opinions. She dropped her dress on the ground, and it landed with

a sodden thump. Charles was probably slamming her six ways from tomorrow right

now. She shook her head, her jet black curls shedding salt water like tears. No,

that wasn't right. Charles would be making excuses for her. He wouldn't want

anyone to think she was crazy. Not unless there was a marketing advantage to

selling the idea of a hotel designed by a lunatic.

Five years. One thousand eight hundred twenty-five days, no wait, twenty-six

days of her life. Forty-four thousand, no, forty-three thousand eight something

hours. Connie clenched her teeth and slammed her fists against her thighs.

Numbers. She always hid in the numbers. The plans, the drawings, the designs. It

was easy to let Charles run her life. It was easy to love him, because of all

the things he did for her. It was easy to ignore the ways he used her. She had

her work, and that was enough.

She ran her fingers over her head, pressing the salt water from her long hair,

feeling it trickle and drip down her back, down her thighs, tickling her as it

found its way to the sand. The sensation was teasing and sensuous, and she found

herself stripping off her undergarments without hesitation. Being caught naked

would be no worse than being caught half-naked. Shedding her clothing felt

right, like she was casting off a bothersome shell, a confining cage, an

impediment to her desires. She toyed with the ring on her finger. It was a gift

from Charles, a sort of a promise to get engaged at some point. She thought

about removing it, but the thing had value, and she wasn't so careless that she

was ready to just toss it away. Moreover, there were some happy memories. Five

years of her life faced the ocean, and it occurred to her that it really was a

splendid thing that she had created, a marvelous, sprawling trinket set in this

tropical paradise. Yet, now that it was built, it was no longer really a part of

herself. It belonged to people like Charles, and that angered her. Not that they

had it, but that she had given it to them, sliced off a part of herself and

placed it before such repugnant vultures.

Connie's eyes widened, and she smiled and took a deep breath. The numbness still

suffused her being, but this anger, this rage at the people who had so

uncaringly used her was a new thing. It wasn't the same as the hate that drove

her from the hotel. That had been a retreat, a force pulling her away. This was

like the ocean waves, pushing her back, and it gusted through her soul like a

fresh wind of redemption. She stretched her arms high over her head, rising up

on her toes, feeling the anger coursing through her blood. She'd love nothing

more than to blow up Charles' precious hotel, preferably with him inside of it,

and she grinned as she contemplated the precise points that one would have to

place charges to bring the whole damn thing down. Explosives were quick, though,

it might be more fun to demolish it slowly with bulldozers and wrecking balls.

Knocking down each wall, each room, and if Charles was inside trying to flee the

destruction, all the better. Five years she'd spent building the damn place, and

now all she could think about was how nice it would be to level it.

The moonlight gleamed on her teeth as she smiled. Maybe there was a way…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Nine hundred rooms, three main lobbies with glide-ways through the glass tunnel

aquarium, and a full shuttle service for those who are less adventuresome. The

edifice is tiered and lavishly decorated with plants from the region, maximizing

the number of prime viewing locations available. The balconies are staggered in

ways that increase the privacy of the residents, encouraging people to enjoy the

view at their leisure, and it whatever state of dress seems appropriate. The

overall effect, though, does not detract from the basic theme. We've had reports

from passing airplanes as to the authentic look of the hotel from a thousand

feet up. I think you'll all agree that the illusion of a sand castle bears the

closest scrutiny. The walls have been coated with sands from all over the world,

helping to extend the theme through the use of natural colors. Shells, pebbles

and driftwood have been used to heighten the impact. An extensive system of

creative lighting caps off the effects, producing halls and rooms that are an

absolute delight for the senses.

"Well, that's enough of the propaganda. You know how much I like to boast. Let's

get the tour going, I think you will all find that the hotel is much more

effective at displaying its beauty than my poor words can hope to."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The sand was moist and fine, exemplary material that stuck together well, molded

easily, and did not cake itself to her fingers. She labored swiftly, but

precisely. This was work that she could do in her sleep. The moonlight cast

strange shadows on her efforts, but her fingers were sure in all of their

movements. Story by story she recreated her design, packing the sand around her

fingers for the guest rooms, using her fist to mold the shapes of the great

conference calls. She had to move around as she built, even on this scale the

hotel was quite large. But she knew every inch of this building; every wall,

every room, every corridor, and it came together quick. It took her an hour to

shape in sand what had taken five years to create from stone and steel. She

stood up, brushing the fine sand from her naked body, admiring the way the

moonlight lit the curving walls and slender towers, carving sharp lines of light

and darkness across its lines, the glitter in the sand giving it an extra level

of detail that seemed to lift the whole structure from a mere copy to an

intricate model of the building that had inspired its making.

Connie walked around the sand castle, looking down at it, her teeth nibbling at

her lower lip. All the time she had been working on it she had been able to

forget the events of the evening, the party, the anger she felt towards Charles.

But now that she was done she felt it returning. A burst of distant laughter

reawakened her rage. Before it had been distant, unfocused, with only her

numbness to measure against it. But now it was more closer, more intimate, and

she realized that the toy she had built was feeding her emotions, giving them a

target to dwell upon. It felt good. She remembered the vision of a wrecking ball

slamming into the side of the building, and smiled to herself. She might not be

able to smash the real hotel into rubble, but this toy was another matter. She

stretched her arms and legs, her body undulating in the silvery light as she

felt the tension flowing through her limbs. The numbness melting into her

muscles as she mulled over various ways of demolishing this thing she had

created, wishing deep inside that Charles was somewhere within it, instead of in

that other sand castle…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Charles let the entourage through his hotel with all the confidence of a man

trying to sell a nugget of gold. He knew that the hotel was already a hit.

People were hanging on his every word, gasping with delight at the countless

details that made the place so lavish. He congratulated himself on his luck.

Connie was not nearly as good as he was at this, yet it would have been her

prerogative to present the place to the people who had funded it. As it was, he

could already hear the scratching of pens on paper heralding the coming of new

projects. Avarice coddled his soul as he led the group into the corner tower,

showing off the luxurious penthouse that was one of the most extravagant rooms

in the hotel.

The first time the floor shook, he passed it off as a consequence of the large

crowd tromping through the room. He didn't think anything about it, until he

noticed that some of the guests were whispering to each other and glancing at

the floor.

"It's nothing but harmonics," he said. "We apparently have a large enough crowd

in the room that we're registering on the infrastructure and it's shaking a

little. Definitely nothing to worry about. With a structure this size we want it

to flex a little, especially given some of the off-season storms that

occasionally sweep through the region."

It was the perfect foil for their concerns, and he busied himself explaining how

ready the hotel was for anything the elements could hurl against it. People were

smiling now as the floor trembled beneath their feet, and Charles patted himself

on the back. He was in rare form tonight. Promising even more incredible sights,

he called the people to follow him from the room, puffed up a little with pride

from the effect the tour was having on his patrons, as he led most of the group

out into the spacious hallway.

All of this made it that much worse when the penthouse imploded…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Connie didn't have explosives, wrecking balls or bulldozers. But then, she

hardly needed them. She sauntered slowly around the sand castle, circling it,

stepping closer and closer. She trod upon a fountain she had made, and it sank

down deep, pressed back into sand, leaving behind a perfect imprint of her toes.

She trod upon the fancy entranceway to the underground parking garage, and

wished for a moment that Charles was down there watching her circling hugely

around five years of work and a quarter of a billion dollars worth of expense.

She raised her foot higher, intending to step into the middle of the sand

castle, but checked herself. There was no rush. She wanted to savor this, and

the numbness within her melted a little, seeping into the anger she felt, making

her feel a little giddy as she knelt down next to the image of her hotel.

Moonlight danced on the sand, and she fancied that they were lights from the

many rooms, glittering as the tiny people inside the building moved here and

there, occluding this light, revealing that one. She reached her hand up towards

the south penthouse, a fine creation, though not the best the hotel had to

offer. Her fingers brushed gently against the sand, caressing it, remembering

the hours spent visualizing this place, designing it, describing it, building

it. Her fingers touched the outer walls of the room, closed around them, held

them softly. She felt the room, felt it's height and its width, its thickness

and its volume, and as she felt it she closed her fingers together, crushing it,

breaking it, shattering it.

And it felt so good…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Dust billowed out into the corridor. The air was full of screams and the sounds

of snapping steel and crunching concrete. Charles was tossed against a wall as

the floor heaved beneath him, but he recovered quickly, surging to his feet,

bulling his way through the confused people, stopping himself in the doorway to

the penthouse, his finger clenched tightly on the door frame, his eyes wide with

disbelief. The penthouse was gone, smashed, the walls crushed inwards and the

roof tumbled down on the wreckage of the floor. Five hundred thousand dollars

worth of furniture and decorations glittered through the broken stone. As he

watched, part of the rubble shifted, flowing like an avalanching sand dune. He

mopped his brow with his shirt sleeve and glanced up. Something moved through

the smoke-like pall, something big, retreating from sight. He narrowed his eyes

and tried to follow the thing, but the swirling dust obscured it. Not that it

mattered. The reason for the destruction was moot at the moment. The scratching

of pens that he had heard scant moments ago was now replaced by the sound of

tearing paper and slamming doors.

Charles turned in the doorway and looked back at the crowd of disheveled people.

"Is everyone okay?" he asked.

The chorus that rose against him was everything he feared: "What the hell

happened, Kendall?" "We want out of here now!" "We came to see a hotel, not a

death trap." "I can't believe that we were just in there." "Where are the

Albertsons? They were right behind us." "Jesus, Charles, was the place just

bombed?" "It felt like an earthquake." "Harmonics, my ass, the room was on the

verge of collapsing." "I'm only glad we managed to get out."

Charles leaned forward as if bracing himself against a storm, his fingers still

gripping the door frame. Behind him he heard voices, someone groaning loudly,

and his blood froze. He had to get these people out of here, had to get the

rescue units in to go through the rubble. There were people missing from the

party. There was money in the safe, enough to bribe silence from the paramedics.

Calming down these people, though, was going to be impossible. The best he could

hope for was to get them out of the hotel.

"Okay, I'm sorry. I wish I had answers for all of your questions. I have a lot

of questions, myself. I assure you, the engineering inspection was very

thorough. We brought in people from the states for this, rather than rely on the

local standards. I realize you are all very frightened. If you will please

proceed down the hallway I'll see you to the lobby, and out of the hotel. Please

take your time, whatever had happened seems isolated to this one room. We don't

want to make matters worse by panicking."

His voice boomed out over the crowd, deep and soothing and full of authority. It

was perfectly delivered, and the party began to respond to it, people pairing

off, finding each other, moving down the corridor towards the stairwells. He

heard nervous laughter from someone, and smiled. They were having an adventure

now. It wouldn't last, they were all feeling a bit tipsy from the drinks and the

unexpected excitement, but they would remember how he handled this moment, and

that would help his cause when he tried to explain the disaster – no, not

disaster – the incident in the penthouse.

The people walked down the hallway, leaving the dusty air behind them. The

corridor widened, bringing them into an expansive area, splendidly laid out,

generously windowed, dominated by the top of an elegant spiral staircase.

Charles brushed off his tuxedo, ran his hands over his hair, and advanced into

the crowd, asking the health of each person, allaying any concerns, radiating

his personal outrage that innocent lives were at risk, taking full

responsibility for the incident and promising swift answers and swift action.

His words were so persuasive, so imbued with charisma that most of the party

lingered in the room, milling around, admiring the furnishings. A couple people

suggested that the tour might be continued, but Charles shook his head. Much as

he would have loved to have gone on, that was tempting chance too much. He felt

on top of the situation again. They would investigate the problem with the

penthouse, make sure it was properly spun to clear him of any possible fault,

and proceed from there.

Feeling good about himself, Charles stepped up to the windows, glancing out of

them, admiring the way the moonlight accented the grounds; though there seemed

to be something wrong with that one fountain out there. He was peering through

the glass, trying to identify the trouble when he heard a shout from one of the

men. He glanced up, just in time to see the whole of the outer wall exploding

inwards…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Connie sifted the sand through her fingers. The grains resisted more than she

anticipated. It felt more firm, almost brittle, as though a fine crust had

formed upon it. It made the sensation of crushing the penthouse feel more

realistic than she had expected it to. Not that she was complaining. A little

dab of realism was what her soul craved as she vented her frustrations on the

sand castle. Rising to her feet she walked around the thing again. It looked so

small, so fragile and helpless, and the sense of power unknotted a little more

of the numbness within her. Dropping down to one knee she glanced at the lobby

at the top of the grand staircase. So much work, so much effort, so many details

to attend to in a room that was really nothing more that a fancy walkway. It was

large, with more floor space than a modest home. Still, the hotel didn't just

have the Sand Castle as a theme, it was also founded on every form of

extravagance.

Extravagant excesses demanded extravagant responses. Connie smiled, balled up

her fingers into a fist and reached back, her bare breasts swaying as she wound

up and punched the lobby. There was an audible crunch as her fist sank into the

side of the castle, sending sand flying in all directions. She flexed her

fingers inside of the castle, and felt things breaking, probably small twigs and

thin shells mixed in the sand. The illusion was so deliciously real that she

half imagined she could hear screaming, and bared her teeth in a cruel grin,

wishing that it was Charles howling his lungs out…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Charles screamed himself hoarse.

He didn't know what was more horrific: the sudden, unexpected crashing of the

wall, the screaming of people crushed in the wreck and ruin, the loss of any

hope of recovering from this catastrophe, or the impossible, implausible, mad

vision that accompanied the destruction unveiling before him. For there,

outlined in the swirling smoke and dust moved the fingers of a colossal hand. It

was vague, only partially substantial, as though limned in moonlight, but it was

alive and vital, moving with careless impunity through the lobby. The great

fingers uncurled slowly, reaching down, encompassing a portion of the group of

yelling men and shrieking women. Charles watched in helpless disbelief as the

fingers slowly closed around the struggling people, the great hand clenching in

a fist, the air filled with the sound of animal screams and crunching flesh.

Charles stumbled back, retching as he watched one of the men caught in the power

of a curling finger, his arms reaching out for help, his face a mask of terror

as the finger squeezed him. His face mottled with pain from the unceasing

pressure. Charles gasped as the man began vomiting blood, twitching and jerking

as the finger compressed his trapped body. Something white and glistening

erupted from the man's neck, and he flopped forward limply, but the fingers

continued to squeeze and flex in a disturbingly playful manner, crushing and

pulping the men and women into a sodden, gory mess.

Yet all of that was as nothing compared to the shock Charles felt as he watched

the hand withdraw from the shattered room. The flesh flickered and guttered in

the moonlight, but it was there, clear for him to see: the ring he had given to

Connie shone like a promise of damnation…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Connie was struck again by the expected realism she felt as she broke the sand

castle, and it occurred to her that grief and frustration had driven her a

little insane, enough that she was able to fool herself into believing that this

was the real structure that she was demolishing. And why not, if she could

transform herself into a giantess, she'd take great pleasure in reducing the

grand hotel to rubble. So many years of caring about the damn thing, of coddling

it, tending to its every needs, losing sleep over it, losing friends, losing

time. It felt very good to tear into the thing and feel it break.

The arousal she felt was something of a shock at first. She was angry, the

numbness within her was feeding that anger, but it was also suffusing her body

with other feelings. It had been so long since she and Charles had made love.

There had been the work, of course, but then to learn of the others that he had

slept with, spurning her, making excuses those few times she had come to him for

love. Now she felt a measure of power, even though it was only an illusion,

still it felt good, and her body was responding to the new freedom that she

felt, savoring the pleasure of wrecking this icon of her frustration, imagining

Charles to be trapped within it, helpless to escape her rage.

Connie punched the castle again, her breasts shifting as her fist drove into the

structure, the sand exploding in all directions, raining down on her, trickling

off her flesh, teasing glancing sensations from her nipples. She leaned forward

and crushed a score of rooms under her hands, digging her fingers into the

castle, ripping it open. She felt the sand against her breasts, and recognized

the shape of outer walls of the Red Room, the most expensive space in the entire

hotel. Growling wantonly she rolled her shoulders, using her breasts to smash

that part of the hotel, dragging her nipples through it, thrusting her chest

forward, toppling almost a third of the hotel with the fierceness of her attack.

She was done being subtle now, done with taking her time. Her anger demanded

more of her, her passion cried out for more, yearning to feel the sand castle

yielding to her body. And all the while a small potion of herself raised its

eyebrows and giggled at the silliness of it all, but also cheered her on,

because it felt so good to be so outrageously bad, and she had a deep need to

feel good.

So she stood up and began to step on the hotel, still circling it, not ready to

demolish all of it yet, saving the topmost spire for a final act of vengeance.

And as she stomped around the tiny sand castle, she saw in her mind's eye the

hoards of patrons that were the things that Charles really loved. The keepers of

money, the makers of schedules, the enemies of art. She saw them running from

the hotel, dressed in tuxedos and lavish gowns, fleeing for their tiny lives.

But she gave them no mercy, lifting her bare foot over them and stepping down,

crushing the tiny people under her toes and soft sole. Pressing her heel into

the sand and leaning forward. She pursued them in groups and singly, grinning

down at them, unashamed of her nakedness, lost in the illusion, delighting in

her violence. She danced seductively over them, undulating her body, reminding

them that she wasn't just an architect, wasn't just a toy for Charles to use to

further his ambitions, but that she was a woman, with wants and needs, hopes and

desires. Her body was hot with lust, the tension in her body melting away,

leaving her wet and aroused. She toyed with a final group of imagined people,

curling her toes over them, feeling them fight and struggle against her as she

slowly pressed down, digging her toes into the sand, ruthlessly grinding them

into paste.

Spinning on her toes Connie sauntered back towards the sand castle, her hips

swaying saucily, her black curls bouncing against her back and shoulders as she

approached the central tower and looked down and it over the lovely swell of her

breasts. Its top was broken revealing the inner stairwell. What she saw there

made her smile, and sent a thrill of wicked anticipation coursing through her

body…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

No force of nature was so methodical in its destructive power, so cruel in its

intentions, so uncaring and viscous. Charles fled from the lobby as the gigantic

fists slammed into the hotel again and again, rocking it on its foundations,

shattering windows, sending great cracks racing through the walls. The floor

leapt beneath his feet, knocking him off his stride, his shoulder clipped

against an ornate pillar and he fell in a sprawling pile. Someone kicked him,

another person tripped over him. He felt hands on him, trying to drag him along,

but the building shivered violently and the hands released him.

Screams sounded from the corridor behind him, and he heard the sound of

crunching that could only be made by a human body being crumpled up by something

huge and infinitely powerful. Fear cleared his senses enough for him to pull

himself to his feet. He heard yelling coming from the corridor ahead of him,

cries to turn back, to get out of the way, voices raised in terror. Looking up

he saw a fancy doorway leading to a small, but ornate staircase winding upwards,

and he realized that the Princess Tower loomed above him. The floor shook hard,

and he leaned against the wall, fighting to stay upright. There was no safety in

the tower, but going down seemed suicide right now, given the gut clenching

howls of panic sounding all around him. However, there might still be a way to

escape, if he had the guts to do it.

Stumbling forward he grabbed the railing and began to ascend the staircase,

winding round and around, desperately bracing himself each time the building

shook. Despite all the terror and the uncertainly he climbed quickly, and was

about two-thirds up into the tower when he felt a prodigious shock to the

building. Something above him crunched loudly, and he yelled as debris rained

down the staircase, bouncing and tumbling wildly, some of it hitting him, none

of it big enough to knock him from the railing. The noise seemed to last

forever, but eventually it ceased. Charles looked down and groaned. One of the

inner supports had given way, and the wall had slumped forward, exposing the

steel infrastructure, but worse, choking the passageway. There was no going

back.

A strange sound yanked him from his reverie, sent him clambering up the stairs,

tripping over the detritus in his haste. He emerged into the nighttime sky, the

top thirty feet of the tower had been sheared off, the wreckage fallen into the

vast pool where he'd hoped to cast himself. The hotel lay in ruins around him,

smoke rising from the smashed rooms and shattered towers, rising and curling and

framing the ghostly presence of a colossal figure kneeling beside the hotel. She

was reaching forward, closing her fingers around one of the rooms, crushing it

in her fingers as though it were an egg shell. Her gigantic breasts were naked,

and pressing against the honeymoon suite that they called the Red Room.

Something about the contact against her naked flesh seemed pleasing to her, and

she ground her chest against the building with a passion that Charles had never

seen in her before. He gripped the broken masonry, his mind shocked at the sight

of Connie looming half substantially beside the hotel, playfully rubbing her

tits against it, demolishing the Red Room with fierce pleasure, her swollen

nipples testifying to the arousal of her immense form. A low growl emanating

from her as she pressed her breasts deep into the hotel, knocking over a

significant portion of it.

She stood up then, and Charles swallowed in a mouth suddenly gone dry as her

body rose higher and higher, the moonlight washing over her flesh, illuminating

her breasts, the smooth muscles of her shapely tummy, the curves of her hips,

even the lush triangle of her trimmed pussy hairs sparkled in the eldritch light

framed by thighs vast enough to crush a skyscraper. He watched as she began to

step on the hotel, taking her time, her face betraying the pleasure she felt as

she trod upon the castle. The air filled with the noise of crashing and

crunching as her bare feet trampled stone and steel as though it were mere sand.

Yet that wasn't the worst of it. Charles watch helpless as people streamed from

the lobbies, pelting across the tarmac, their faces raised in terror, looking up

at the giantess in their midst.

They did not go unnoticed. Connie saw them, and immediately decided to include

them in her fun. Charles shouted at her to stop as she raised her foot over a

portion of the crowd and slowly stepped down. Men and women vanished under

Connie's bare foot with awful screaming finality. Her foot sank into the

blacktop as though it were nothing but wet sand, leaving a perfect impression of

the bottom of her foot as she lifted it, the moonlight shining on the moist

remains in her print. She did not pause, but hunted down more of the fleeing

people, and Charles railed at her, howling at the sky and hurling bits of rubble

in her direction as she stepped on the fleeing men and women. They ran for their

lives, they fell to their knees and prayed, they tried to ward her off in mad

denial of their fate as she touched them with her bare feet and pressed down,

crushing them as if they were nothing more than scuttling ants. Yet there was

more to her motions than simple destruction. Her body undulated in the night,

swayed and shifted, her breasts jiggling playfully as she dragged her toes over

a crowd of tiny people, smearing them across the road with sexy impunity. She

played cruelly with her toys, pursuing them, teasing them, delighting in the way

they crunched underfoot. And as she had her fun the moonlight caressed her body,

filled her with its radiance, increased the reality of her presence.

When she finished stepping on people, she turned back to the hotel, full and

substantial, colossal and unstoppable. The ground shook beneath her feet. Her

body loomed higher and higher, until Charles couldn't stand it anymore, and

pulled himself forward, desiring nothing more that to dash his brains out on the

smashed debris far, far below. But as he clenched the wall he felt it give, felt

the moistness of it, the graininess, the weight of sand instead of stone. He

heard the sound of the ocean washing against the beach, he felt the warm ocean

wind touching him, pushing against him. He looked up. Connie had arrived.

He looked at her legs, at her thighs, shining in the silver light. He beheld her

womanhood, and quailed at the vast power of her sex. Her looked up the expanse

of her belly, up to the generous rondure of her naked breasts. Her nipples rose

from her aureoles, stiff and hard with lust. He looked up and met her eyes

looking down at him, and did not need her smile to tell him that they were

together, and she saw him as clearly as he saw her.

Connie licked her lips hungrily, and blew a little kiss to the tiny man cowering

in the stairwell of the broken tower. She ran her fingers up and down her body,

dancing in place, looming over Charles, overwhelming his senses with her

gigantic naked presence. The unreality of it all gleamed in her eyes, and

Charles realized that though she saw him, she didn't believe in him, and that

thought sent such a chill of fear arcing through his bones that he nearly

fainted.

It might have been better if he had.

Connie's heart pounded. If this was madness, then it was sweet. She lifted her

right foot and straddled the damaged tower. Her hips moved, and she smirked down

at the tiny man.

"Dear, little Charles," she cooed, softly. "You've fucked with me for years

now." Her fingers traveled down between her thighs, grasped her nether lips, and

peeled them open, revealing the moist inner flesh of her sex. "Now it's my turn,

little Charles. My turn to fuck with you." Her eyes glittered in the moonlight,

shining with lust and cruelty. "And Charles," she simpered. "I want it to it

hurt you as much as it hurt me," and with slow movements of her hips she sank

down onto the shattered tower, her pussy descending on Charles, filling his sky,

blotting out the moonlight.

He was screaming now, gibbering in heart pounding terror, his mind filled with

the thoughts of all those people she had crushed, and now she wanted him. Her

vulva hung over him, vast and unstoppable, filling the air with the scent of

arousal. He remembered the scent, remembered the feel of her nether lips on his

face as he drove her wild with his tongue. But this was no play toy for him, no

secret gateway to the heart of an innocent girl. This was the aroused sex of an

angry giantess, warm and soft, wet and slippery, heavy and unyielding. Connie

kissed Charles with her vulva, and used the weight of it to pin him down against

the steps of the staircase. She felt the tiny hands pressing against her pussy

lips, felt the tiny helpless little man squirming and struggling against her

sensitive flesh. She abandoned herself to her dream, savored the puny struggles

of her ex-lover, her juices seeping from her sex, coating him with the essence

of her arousal. Connie moved her hips, rubbing her cunt against the tiny man

with all the gentleness that she could bear to allow. The tension built up

within her again, the knot forming in her gut. But this was no lump of numbness.

This was a flame of desire, a rush of passion. Connie cupped her breasts in her

hands, stroked her nipples with her fingers, and tipped her hips back so she

could press her clit against Charles.

Charles screamed and fought for his life. Connie was merciless, she ground her

cunt against him, slathered him with her juices. He felt his ribs snap, tasted

blood in his mouth as she rubbed her sex over his body, despite his attempts to

fend her off, to hide, to try to crawl away. He felt used, like a play toy, a

trinket for her amusement as she raped him with her gigantic pussy, subduing him

with her sex. He pussy pressed down against him, trapping him against the

stairs, and he shrieked as he felt his legs snap. She kissed him roughly with

her nether lips, let her womanhood batter and bruise him. Then, there was a

brief reprieve as he felt her lips gliding over him, sliding from his head to

his toes. Something hard and hot pressed against his head, neck and chest,

something throbbing, radiating a fierce heat. Charles tasted her juices mingling

with the blood in his mouth. He struggled weakly, trying to shift himself from

beneath the dreadful weight of Connie's clitoris. The agony seemed to last

forever, and he screamed at her to finished the job. She might have heard him.

It didn't matter. He felt the weight increasing, felt her clit pressing down

forcing the air from his lungs, squeezing his head and chest with playful

cruelty. She moved slowly, and his body twitched and jerked as if hit with

galvanic currents. Lights danced in his vision, red lights filled with agony as

Connie crushed him with her cunt. The second last noise he heard was a vast

feminine voice crying out with orgasmic delight. The last noise he heard was the

sound of his skull cracking open as she mashed him flat with her clitoris.

Connie trembled, savoring the delicious struggles of her little sex toy. She

took her time, teasing herself, making the moment last as the pressure built up

within her. Charles cooperated nicely, his little body twitching against her

clit, stroking her with his pathetic struggles. She felt the gates of pleasure

open within her, flooding her body with pleasure, and she cried out happily as

she bore down with all her weight, her clit driving through Charles, turning him

to paste, smearing him against her sex as it crashed down through the tower,

smashing and shattering it in single hedonistic stroke as she fell to her knees,

then fell prone to the ground, her thighs pressed tightly together as she rolled

from side to side, heedlessly demolishing the rest of the hotel as she moaned in

pleasure…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

When Connie awoke the moon was near the horizon. The night was warm, she was

comfortable, curled up in the sand where the castle had stood only a few hours

ago. She felt drained, but good. The tension was gone. She felt like she could

even face Charles, if only to tell him to get lost.

It took a few minutes to locate her dress. Her undergarments were nowhere to be

seen, possibly buried under the sand. She took a quick swim in the ocean to wash

the worst of the sand off her body, snapped her dress several times to get some

of the grains out of it, then slipped it on and started back up the beach

towards the hotel.

Red and blue lights winked and flickered in the distance, and the sound of

radios echoed across the beach: voices, beeps, trills and tones making the

noises of authority and rescue. Her jaw gaping she walked across the grounds,

staring at the mangled pile of steel and concrete that was all that remained of

the Sand Castle hotel. Police were everywhere, taking photographs, making chalk

outlines of greasy splotches at the bottom of vast craters in the roadway.

Connie combed her hair with her fingers and walked into the midst of the chaos,

her heart thumping in her chest as she looked over the destruction.

"Ma'am?"

Connie turned and looked up at the tall policeman.

"Ma'am," he repeated. "Are you okay?"

She nodded, then found her voice. "Yes, officer. I was down on the beach. Can

you tell me what happened?"

"Sorry, ma'am, we're still trying to work that out. Sure is a mess, though.

You'd think they'd build these fancy hotels a bit more sturdy than this."

"Some things you just can't prepare for," said Connie, and she smiled sweetly.

…End…

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Giantess Stories: SAND CASTLES   Scott Grildrig 17

Five years of Connie's life faced the ocean: vast, sand colored, soaring and 17-Dec-1998 17-Dec-1998 Scott Grildrig Scott Grildrig SAND CASTLES SAND CASTLE

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