There she goes, jogging down the sidewalk on a clear, hot summer’s day.
It’s rush-hour traffic beside her, people pushing to get out of the city against people pushing to get in. Nobody lives where they work, but she’s not a part of that. She’s jogging down the sidewalk with an expression of internalized focus, and all she sees are yards of clear and segmented pavement before her.
From beneath a close-fitting black baseball cap, one thick flaxen ponytail of medium length bobs and swings against the back of her head. It holds its shape uniformly, clean and pure as it catches the afternoon rays. Her eyebrows angle down in the center, not out of anger but in the aforementioned focus, belying a determination to keep running, keep straining until she gets home, wherever that is.
Her lips are thin but expressive, frowning with effort. With every two steps she puffs her cheeks and purses her lips to force the air into a narrow stream. Her tiny fists swing in front of her smooth and undefined arms—she’s a little plump but not obese—pumping in the air opposite every step. A black sports bra holds her modest breasts in place, and they jump and heave in jubilation. “Look at us!” they call out to the cars. “Look how we bounce,” they cry to the cyclists. Everyone looks, because they are lovely, round, merry breasts, but she stares straight ahead, puffing.
The sports bra cuts off around the bottom of her rib cage, revealing a golden tanned midriff with a bit of tummy, a hint of muffin top. A little padding, sure, but she wears it well. It’s not mottled and pocked like a sack of cottage cheese: it’s smooth and inviting like a swirl of caramel, well-formed like a slight exaggeration of the Greek ideal. It too heaves with her thunderous prance down the concrete, but not overmuch. Her belly trembles in the promise of how nice it would be to bury one’s face in it.
Below her waist are a pair of black yoga pants, snugly fitting everything in their wheelhouse. They snug up between the deep, deep crack formed of her buttocks, nuzzling like a lover’s face where each massive cheek chews against the other in the riot of exercise. They paint themselves over her thighs, large and round but strong, shuddering with each pulsing trot, speaking more to muscle mass than flab. They clutch her cannonball calves, just below her strong and well-turned knees, the final stretch of extremity to which they have access. These pants love her as dearly as any meat-eating man could, and they are the envy of an entire side of a mass transit bus of red-blooded American males.
And there are tanned shins that peg down into ducky little running socks, themselves couched in a cloud of cross-trainers, and it’s these that dance down the sidewalk as she chugs along, heaving deliciously and churning tantalizingly beneath an adoring golden sun. But these are perfunctory and sing to the heart with less resonance than her shimmying bosom or grinding posterior or clenching thighs.
She breaks into a walk two blocks before she gets home, her cool-down exercise. She pauses outside her door, unlocks the entrance and leaves the kitchen lights off—enough sunlight comes through the windows. She pours herself a tall glass of water from the filtered faucet, gulping for liquid then gulping for air. Her cap tugs off easily and slaps against the dining table as her cross-trainers squeak across the tile and into the hall.
Her glass is set on the dresser and her fists cross her chest to pull up the hem of her sports bra, setting her babies free: medium-sized aureolae slightly darker than her nudist-beach-tanned boobs. They are moist in the crevice beneath their bulk: the bra is soaked and is flung near the hamper. She strides up to the foot of her queen-sized mattress, covered in a white quilt in a subtle wildflower pattern, and looms over the tiny man pinned there.
Not pinned: she has taken thin loops of thread and stitched his wrists and ankles to the quilt, only to hold him in place. His heart froze when he heard her dull plod down the hardwood hallway floor, and here she was, looming over him, smelling of sweat and ozone. He gazed up at her bare belly sticking out over him, her breasts jutting out above that, and a cold, inscrutable gaze of her eyes, a gaze partially occluded by the roundness of her tits.
She turned away from him. He saw one massive tanned arm swing through space like a construction crane, one black hip rise and swell into two black buttocks, Lycra straining to contain them. The deep crevasse of her butt-cleavage was the irresistible focus as his vision slid over her prominent, spherical butt cheeks. She paused, then hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her yoga pants, bent, and yanked them down over her thighs and knees.
Her tremendous ass exploded into his sky, overtaking half of all territory. The flats of her hind thighs shot sheer above him and each tremendous, planetary buttock widened to spread into even greater surface area, wider and rounder and hovering above him. The crack of her ass became shallow, her cheeks spread, and the absence of panties revealed a bleached and hairless anus mere feet (his scale) above him, just above the smooth mounds of her shaven labia majora rising to squeeze the line of wrinkled, pink, and moistened labia minora—this, much closer to his legs and feet as they pointed at the edge of the bed. Despite his terror at being crushed by so monumental a monstrosity, his cock perked up and throbbed, pointing amorously at the goddess above.
One hip twitched and she heaved to the side; the other as well, and the shoes and pants were off. Again, and the socks went too, but she did not straighten up. With her ass broadened and her goods exposed, she simply fell back to the bed in a heavy sit. Her butt cheeks blotted out the ceiling and her pussy rushed down to mash down upon the entire length of his body: his tiny toes wriggled around her clitoral hood, and her taint nudged the crown of his skull. All else was coated in vaginal lubrication as her lips spread and embraced him, drawing him within almost immediately.
She closed her eyes (he couldn’t see this) and sat there, still sweating, still musky with exertion, and just… felt. She felt the tiny man squirming against her labia. She felt his limbs tied and not moving much, and she felt his hips and chest bucking and nudging up into her pussy. After a moment she shifted her hips and twisted her seat onto the quilt, grinding into him. He struggled, though his efforts were less noticeable, and she placed all of her weight upon him and his surrounding area.
He was coated in her lubrication and sweat. The crack of her ass bore a salty musk he didn’t care for, and her pussy was ripe and sharp like tangerine yogurt. All of it was all over him and he couldn’t snap the simple, puny threads to free himself. Even if he could, there were still yards (his scale) of heavy woman-flesh surrounding him in every direction. The only escape was up—inside her. If he could get free.