Giantess Hut: Slave Princess
V. Radioactive Fire Turtle
copyright 2021 Taedis
(CW: Kaiju style monster fights, profanity, sexual references)
[Yesterday I came across a collaged poster of Slave Leia as a Godzilla-esque monster by GiantessStudios101. I tweeted it out with a joke about wanting to see her fight Gamera. My friend and fellow author Praedatorius challenged me to write that story. This is the result. Not my best or weightiest story, but it was a hoot to write. I hope you enjoy.]
The worst part was all the damn SUVs.
There wasn't a square inch of wilderness in a five mile drive. Why were there more of them than bicycles? At least bikes could get somewhere through the congested streets.
The effin' things were worse than Legos. All but breaking the skin every time Carrie's weight came down on one. Strike that. SUVs were worse. Legos didn't have gas tanks that went up with even the slightest hint of pressure. Seriously, walking on eggshells would be easier.
Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if Carrie'd been given shoes when she suited up for tonight's event. Stepping from hotfoot to hotfoot couldn't help anyone's mood.
Come to think about it, the costume was the worst.
Why'd it always have to be the slave girl outfit? Would it kill anyone if for once she showed up in that winter planet getup? The one with thick soled SUV resistant boots.
If Carrie caught one more guy feigning horror as he looked up her loincloth she was really gonna lose her shit.
“It's an ass, dude,” Carrie unloaded at the next ant-sized man pointing and rubbernecking upwards. “Everyone's got one and the anatomy is pretty much the same. Two cheeks and a hole. Chill.”
Carrie bent over until her eyes became the man's horizon. Lucky for her back he was on the roof of one of the taller skyscrapers. She only had to bend at the waist to look him eye-to-eye.
“Of course the lady junk's an upgrade over the model you're sporting,” Carrie whispered to keep damages down. The night was still young and there was a lot of rampaging to do. “
But jealousy is no excuse to point and stare.”
Carrie was already getting bored waiting for an apology when adrenaline trumped terror and he bolted for the stairs.
“You're welcome for the PSA.”
This time she spoke at normal volume. Windows shattered five stories down the-hair-of-Smurf's-ass part of a second before her breath reached them. She'd had Italian for lunch. Extra garlic. She wanted them to smell it.
Carrie rose to her full height and swiped an open hand across the night sky while saying “the more you know”.
It might have worked if it wasn't for the chain. Four times longer than Carrie, attached to her collar, and magnitudes thicker than an SUV. She had to carry it in a pile over her shoulder to keep the incidental damages down to the bare minimum. The streets were getting beat up enough with just her bare feet pulverizing them.
“Jacob Marley didn't carry this much heavy metal.” Carrie gave the chain a dirty look when it spoiled the end of the hand gesture. “Somebody better be enjoying this.”
Carrie'd been rampaging like a mofo a solid half hour. The distant mosquito buzz of helicopters reminding her that most of the audience was streaming this at home, flipping from camera angle to camera angle trying to find the best view of this giant woman wrecking the town with a lot more power than a bull.
She only swatted at the copters lining up to take the perviest views. It was ok; they were only drones. The Hut didn't seem to mind. Her handler gave her some BS about it being good for the show. But Bettie told her there were guys out there who got off getting swatted and enough of them subscribed to write off the occasional drone.
Carrie hoped it'd be Bettie tonight. Bettie was always good for some fun banter during the fight and stories about the old days after the cameras went dead and the live audience limped home. In the meantime she wondered if any of the thicker skyscrapers could handle her weight. She could really use a good sit.
She was underwhelmed when a giant biped tusked turtle dragged itself out of the water and looked her in the eye.
“What kind of sin could a woman commit in a single lifetime to bring this upon herself?” Carrie doubted anyone watching her, live or streaming, recognized the quote she'd worked herself into. It wasn't the kind of film her target audience watched.
If the turtle made a quote Carrie didn't recognize it either.
“Sorry. Don't understand roar.” Carrie circled the huge shelled thing trying to make him out.
“Armor? I'm in a g-string and he gets armor? How is that fuckin' fair?”
The turtle belched flame at the spot Carrie had just vacated.
“Well thank fucking God I've got this metal pushup bra and open air loincloth that lets you see all the way to Miami. That's as good as being able to breath fire, right?”
The turtle made a lunge at her, but Carrie sidestepped his awkward thrust. She bit her lip to cover the pain of the five Lego hotfoots she received getting out of the way, but it was better than getting clawed.
They lather-rinsed-repeated the same motions half a dozen times more before the beast gave up, pulled his limbs and head inside his shell, and fell on his belly in the middle of the street.
“Whatever you do, Carrie, don't say 'that was easy'.”
Flames jetted out of four of the shell openings.
“What did I tell me?”
The shell started turning in circles on the ground. Then it gave that up and started turning in circles in the air, rotating upwards like some impossible sky drill.
“Who the hell thought this was a good idea?” Carrie swatted a helicopter hovering over her cleavage. “Right. A dude.”
The giant radioactive fire turtle spun there just out of reach. Even if she used the chain Carrie didn't think it'd be enough.
There wasn't much to throw at him other than water towers and they were too small to pack much of a wallop. Carrie tried ripping up the top few floors of buildings designated empty. The turtle would've felt them. If they'd even gotten close.
“Pro tip. Buildings make shit projectiles. They're as aerodynamic as speed bumps and they fall apart long before they miss.”
When Carrie clipped him with a cell tower he flew a block away.
“Dude!” Carrie threw up her hands in disgust. “Grow a pair and land or fly the piss off.”
Carrie couldn't be sure if he understood her words, her tone, or her body language, but one or all of the above got him riled up enough that he launched himself at her with all the speed a scaled whirling fire disc could muster.
The pained scream shot out of her as soon as the giant turtle slammed into her chest. Windows for blocks around tinkled into a million pieces of broken glass barely bigger than the grains of sand they were made of.
The impact knocked her off her feet, but a brownstone broke her fall. The fact she landed butt first hurt her pride more than the tiny building hurt her ass. She tried not to think about the cameras mounted on the roof and the number of playbacks the buttcrush fans were going to give this.
“You hit me in the tit, you dick!” The metal bikini cups rang like cathedral bells against her raw knockers. “I don't care if you are a reptile; you're going down.”
Unless he was an amphibian. Shit. Now it was bugging her. And she couldn't Google it till she got back to her phone. Fuck this not having pockets bullshit.
“Bet you got wifi in there, don't you?”
Carrie kicked the part of the shell that would have covered his dick if boy turtles had dicks. Now she had two things to Google. It was cold comfort hearing him crash into his own office building, but it bought her time to get up.
When she stood she wasn't carrying the chain. It hung loose from her collar until she'd gathered up the first arm's length. It was cold and uncomfortable wedge-tied between her armpits, but it was the best way to make sure her collar had slack. This wasn't the first time she'd weaponized her bondage. Thought technically this might count as her first rodeo.
“It's not that I have anything against you. Other than the tit-slam. I think we both agree that was shitty.” Carrie started twirling the remaining chain like a bronco rider looking to take down a steer. “You're not the real enemy. Hell, even Giantess Hut is only a symptom of how fucked up the world is.”
He wasn't as graceful or quick as Carrie had been getting up. His thick shell offered great protection, but pulled his squat limbs away from the ground. And a turtle on his back was a turtle on his back no matter how huge he was.
“If you're who I think you are you're really good with kids. But this is an adults only platform and playtime's over.”
Five of the helicopter drones caught Carrie wince at that last line. She'd be kicking herself for weeks every time she came up with a better, smarter one liner.
At least she times her shot right.
The turtle had given up trying to do things the non-fire way. He was just about to pull his everything back into the shell, firebomb his way back into the sky, and have a do-over on that landing when the chain wrapped itself around his neck.
Carrie gave him enough slack to keep from choking him, but not enough freedom for him to lose his head. The plan was tame, not choke. When he finally managed to slip his fat man-turtle hands under the links Carrie pulled with all her strength, bracing her bare foot against one of the sturdier looking ankle-height brownstones.
Turtle fought, but Carrie was too strong. Hands and head were effectively cuffed.
Which did nothing to stop the flames jetting out of the leg holes.
If he'd been angled properly the turtle would have been airborne in seconds. But with his back on the ground and his head tilted the wrong direction it was like mounting a rocket on sled.
He had the time and sense to steer himself towards an open street instead of into a building. But his shoulders were wider than the road and his shell cut huge gashes in the office blocks on either side.
The force of the turtle slamming into the end of his chain almost pulled Carrie's shoulder from its socket, but she managed to hold on. For half a tick she kept the jet propelled turtle where he was, wedged between a Starbuck's and a Kinko's. Carrie's muscles didn't give up; her brownstone foothold did.
Stored momentum hit Carrie harder than she could imagine, pulling her forward as the flailing turtle careened down the street. Her feet barely touched the ground the first three blocks she was pulled so hard. After the fourth she tried to brake with her feet, but that shit only worked on the Flintstones. The turtles jets and her legs were almost evenly matched. Both were stronger than the pavement. The heels of the feet dug deep furrows in the street. Broken water mains poured their contents out over her. The water sizzled into steam from the friction rising off her soles.
The turtle shifted on his side banking his shell against the corner, slowing his forward momentum and slamming Carrie onto her knees. She barely managed to get her arm down in time to keep from face-planting into a cathedral.
The turtle started arcing upwards. For one brief shining moment Carrie had the illusion of choice. That she could let go or go along for the ride. But she couldn't untie the turtle from back there and letting go of the chain only meant she'd be dragged around by the collar. The turtle was taking off and so was she.
On the ground Carrie had the advantage. Other than the fire breathing. And the armor. And the claws. As stupid as it sounded the air was the turtle's home. Even hog-tied and rudderless it was used to being up there. Carrie … not so much.
At first he tried to slam her into things. Fly up fast and whiplash her into something sharp, on fire, hard, or all of the above.
But the buildings were too low to the ground. There was too great a chance he'd overshoot and bury himself under a Taco Bell before she got knocked off. Even the nearest mountain was only a few hundred feet tall.
Carrie knew the shit was hitting the fan as soon as the turtle started gaining altitude. She wasn't sure how fast the fan was spinning, the color of the wallpaper, or the thickness of the crap, but she knew the bad was coming quicker each kilometer they climbed.
The buildings were tiny lights in the distance when the turtle started to burn the chain.
The chain was thick iron, but that meant dick against the twin atomic blasts coming out of the turtle's backside. Could they even control this thing so far away?
“I am fucked if I'm going to die cause an overgrown terrarium farted on me.” It didn't make as much sense out loud as it had in Carrie's head, but unlike her earlier screw up there wasn't anyone here recording.
Carrie had a plan.
It was a shit plan, but it was better than nothing.
The chain got hotter the higher Carrie climbed. She was three body lengths from the back blast when she left the ground. She was one by the time the links started to glow.
The only way to not Hindenburg was to reach part of the chain on the cool side of the shell. Closer to the core. Above the double barreled radioactive exhaust. The way the turtle was jockeying the only way to reach the safe links was through the blast.
Momentum was her friend; momentum wanted her tonguing the ground. The turtle pulled left she twisted right. Hard. Swinging her closer to him; putting the chain deeper in the fire.
On the third swing Carrie saw an opening and reached for it. White pain blinded her when the exhaust turned unexpectedly into her open hand. She only caught the edge and only for less than a second. That may have saved the hand, but it fucked her handhold.
The pressure on her chest was the first and only warning she got that the chain had been severed. The only one she'd get before the ground sucker punched her. She was disconnected from the batshit crazy flying turtle and her only hope of seeing tomorrow was getting closer to the thing that burned her.
Her strong hand was useless. She flailed with the weak as she fell, trying to gauge a million things she'd never be able to guess if she was sane and sober, not drunk on adrenaline and fear.
The chain that brushed her hand was almost molten, but it was taut. Tethered. Flying upward and away. She could smell her own flesh cooking as she grabbed it hard. The smell didn't matter. Only the chain leading her to the shell leading her to dominance. That was the only path that mattered.
There was a shudder. Carrie still couldn't see past the pain, but she wasn't numb. She felt the impact of head on shell, shell on head. Something had happened. Something the asshat turtle hadn't counted on. Instead of sending her up the hell that was his ass it slammed her into his side.
It didn't matter. Carrie needed it to happen again. Carrie needed to be ready for it next time.
The only parts of the chain not on fire were the links dangling from Carrie's collar and those wrapped under her arms. The rest was gom jabbar pain wrapped over hard steel.
This time when the shudder came Carrie was prepared. The hot blast went right, her tired aching body went left. The burned hand scraped against scales and somehow managed to hold on. Muscles that could barely lift a butterfly after all that pulled her to the one life raft in all the ocean of the sky.
Carrie was burned, pissed, her knees were getting scraped on turtle claws, but she was alive and she was on top.
“Okay.” Carrie let out a deep breath. “Let me teach you your first human word. 'Bridle'.” Carrie pulled the chain hard left. The turtle started flying that direction. “Can you say 'bridle'?”