The Prayerful Lady

She fills out her seat on the bus, taking up more than her share of room. Even sitting down, she looks like she might be tall, maybe a few inches shorter than me. Her skirt—is that twill? is that what that’s called?—strains to contain the fullness of her thighs, the spherical fullness of her hips, thighs and hips that spread out when seated. That’s why her right hip is pressed against the side of the bus and her left goes over the division between the blue plastic cushions, in a large roll of round twill.

She’s reading. Her large arms run down her sides, hook around her full, round breasts, and meet in her lap, holding a book. She has to tilt her head down to see the book—it would be too much of a strain to hold the book up for so long—so that she can read it over the mountains of her breasts. I think her head looks a little smallish, but maybe that’s in relation to the greatness of her frame. Two sleepy, half-lidded eyes, set a little close together perhaps, point at the spread pages, with as much intelligence and perception as two windows in the side of a building. Her dull, grey-brown irises slowly twitch from left to right, picking out the words she can recognize, as she reads her little paperback tome of inspirational literature.

Not inspiring to lose weight, make lists, or clean the house better. Inspirational in its catholic sense (and catholic in the sense of “pedestrian,” and pedestrian in the sense of “ordinary, common”) of religious text, literature dedicated to exalting God and elevating the human spirit to better worship Him. That’s what she’s reading, that’s what her dull, lightless eyes examine. Those are the words her lips silently half-form. Maybe she’s pronouncing them, but the moan of the bus and the roar of traffic outside override any other signals. Pink, natural-colored lips, unadored by make-up like the rest of her face; the upper lip arches in what’s called a Cupid’s Bow, two slight peaks formed by either ridge of her philtrum, highly prized in the Victorian era; the lower lip, only full and slightly pouty, the interior glistening with a little moisture. When the bus turns at a certain angle, when the sunlight beams upon half of her unintelligent face, the interior of her fat bottom lip glows with an intense sparkle of light, not unlike the glare of an acetylene torch in a building under construction.

The bus hits an unrepaired pothole, not big enough to avoid but enough to rattle the passengers. This woman, cushioned by her layers of natural padding, only bounces and heaves gently with each bump. The pavement is uneven, the tires hit a cleft, and the tiny body inside her—the core of muscles and bones—swim and float inside the round, fatty outer body. You can see it, you can see her hips and butt unmoved while the core of her rocks, as though she were a driver or pilot inside the armature of her own body, padded to protect against shocks and superficial damage.

The book in her hands, pinned where her thumbs clamp it at the bottom, waggles and bobs with each bump like an erect penis from her lap.

Which is apt, because she arouses me against my judgment. When the bus rattles and heaves, I wish I were beneath her. I wish I were sitting there first, in that seat, and she didn’t even see me. Rapt in her book of inspirational prose, I wish she would have blindly turned around, bent and spread that massive rump in my face, and plumped herself down on my lap. I wish she would have flattened me almost as much as the padding in her hips and thighs flattened; I wish her hips and thighs would spread out over me, over my lap, over my hips and thighs. She could lean her spine back into my chest, bury my face in her long, curly, mousy-brown hair, sweet with the cloying perfume of generic shampoo; she could nestle her shoulder blades through her cardigan into my chest, settle in with a heavy sigh, and continue reading. Oblivious to me, only barely aware of the bus at all, her weight would seem to increase as she relaxed and settled upon me.

But I’m not there, I’m across the aisle and watching her. My lap is empty, and there’s plenty of room in the seat next to me. I glance at the street signs and return to spying on her. She continues to read, her full lips pushing out slightly to pronounce the words as her bland eyes crawl across each sentence. The bus takes a turn and her large body heaves and rolls. Her core body slides to the side, almost into the seat next to her, while her curvy and voluptuous ass and hips remain planted, and I wish they were planted on me.

In my mind, we have gone to her apartment. I imagine she lives in a small, modest apartment. The walls are the creamy off-white that every vintage building in this city seems to have, and she has only spruced it up with dried wildflower wreaths or crucifixes. She’d have a small TV with a VCR and eight tapes she likes to watch over and over. She’d have a small library in, admittedly, a very nice dark wood bookshelf—the shelves are the only luxury she affords herself, trying to stay modest and humble before God. But the shelves can be nice because of the books they hold: a small collection of Bibles, many more inspirational literature, a few books of poems by saints or divinely inspired writers, and an entire row of “true” stories of interactions with angels.

There’s a pink rag rug inside the front door, and she distractedly tells me to remove my shoes on it. The front hall is short, her living room’s on the left but we turn to the right and enter her bedroom. She moves as though in a trance, as though falling down the path of a very linear storyline. She directs me to the bed, and as soon as I take a seat my clothes are gone. I’m naked in her bedroom and she is dressed, standing before me. I can’t tell if she even sees me, her eyes are so blank and so uncomprehending; maybe I’m only conscious in her dream. That would explain a lot of things.

Naked, I’m not cold and I’m not hard yet. This tall, heavy-set woman slowly turns in front of me until her back is to me; more importantly, her broad, round ass. That heavy twill skirt is surprisingly effective in teasing me, because it gives away the shape and dimensions of her large butt, yet there are so many more details I need to know. Where does the cleavage of her ass start? How deep does it run? What in the world kind of underwear does a modest, God-fearing woman in her mid-30s purchase? All these things, I need desperately to know right now, and the thick twill skirt hides it all.

Just like my vision on the bus, she slowly bends at the hip and her ass grows rounder and wider before me. So much twill it must require, to cover all that luscious territory. Her round rear approaches me—she makes little baby-steps on the sandy carpeting to back up into me—and she slowly sways her butt in my face. Is this for me or for her? I love it, I love its planetary rotation just inches before me, it makes me want to grab her hips and hug my face into her butt, but what does she get out of it? Surely there is no psalm or parable about alluring the sons of Adam with the voluptuousness of one’s posterior, yet she knows what she’s doing. She’s calling to something inside me with her massive, swaying butt.

It ends when she sits on me. Something that large can only be described as “descending upon.” Her large buttocks, each larger than my own head, swing down in front of my chest and descend upon my lap. She is heavy and, despite the fleshy padding, solid, and the bed sinks beneath me when her weight is applied. My own butt flattens against the straining box-spring mattress, but her ass is growing. It spreads over my thighs until it starts to rest on the bedspread. Her massive thighs dwarf my own, pouring over the outside of my thighs and in between them. The twill is rough on my skin, and the fullness of her enlarged bottom overwhelms my belly, my pelvis, and all over my lap… and then she begins to grind.

Through the fabric and through the fat, I can still feel her hip bones against my legs, and around them I can feel the complex musculature twitching, tensing, flexing against my body as she rotates. Her hips rotate in an alternating pattern, as if she were walking or biking, and I’m mesmerized by the massive buttocks in my lap as they swell and sway, growing and reducing, as her muscles clench in my lap. I want so badly to grab her hips, seize them, but for some reason I feel as though that would be defiling the sacred. I leave my hands on the quilt, my arms propping me up to resist the tremendous ass rolling around on my body.

And I notice my body is smaller. It looks like her back is stretching upward, too far above my head. It looks like her enormous, round butt is inflating, nudging insistently into my chest and stretching far beyond my lap. But it’s me, I’m getting smaller. My feet have left the floor and my knees have straightened, the edge of the bed too far for them to hang over. She’s grinding my entire body into the mattress, a huge wall of dense twill rising up before my vision, swelling and growing until I can only see the lowest hem of her cardigan.

The motion stops. I hold my breath, wondering what comes next, and then the pressure is relieved. Cold air rushes over my body and the mattress rises with relief beneath me, as the prayerful giantess gets up off the bed and stands. I think my heart’s about to break with longing, until her shoulders twist and her arms writhe and she sheds that cardigan. It’s tossed to the side, dumped on the floor. She has a bone-white linen blouse underneath that, and her hands grasp the button-down front, yank it apart, and peel it off over her shoulders. As I stare up at her broad, smooth back, a long ridge running up over her spine where the fat doesn’t grow, running up beneath a very modest and heavy-duty bra strap, she is undressing for me. Her shoulder blades stick out as she reaches behind, quite ably for such a hefty girl, and unhook her bra. I wish I could see her breasts falling free of constraint. Instead, she simply pulls the bra off, dumps it on the cardigan, and reaches back to unzip her twill skirt.

Finally. It’s going. She’s losing the skirt. Her butt swells above me, blocking out half the ceiling, as she slips the skirt off over her hips. The twill makes a whooshing noise as it slides over her thighs and collapses to the floor, out of my view. There is her tremendous ass, clad only in a threadbare, old cotton pair of panties—it fits, she is too modest to buy nice panties or even new ones—the hemline of the waist biting into her padded hips as they strain to hold together. She bends over and I can see the deep chasm of her butt-crack running up over the top, plunging into the beleaguered underwear and down into the crotch. Very deep. A little guy like me could get lost in there, if I’m lucky.

She straightens up again. I can’t see her expression—I wish it were pleased, satisfied, or slightly angry-appearing with her concentration upon satisfying her sexual appetite, but odds are it’s as blank and dull as ever, as emotionless as that of a woman in deep sleep. Would it creep me out, this dead-faced woman advancing on me? Would it excite me, her expression of obliviousness as her body operates to crush me, rub all over me? I’ll never know, I can only see where her drab ringlets cascade over those large, smooth shoulders. I can’t see her exposed boobs, as her large arms are resting at her sides, and her back would be too broad for me to even peek at them, anyway.

Again with the swaying. Clad only in flimsy cotton panties about three minutes from completely disintegrating, she sways that enormous, planet-sized rump at me again, hypnotically slow. She doesn’t shake it frenetically like the fat-assed girls in rap videos or the young white girls in YouTube videos, trying to dance like them. She only turns her shoulders slightly and turns her hips a little more, rotating her ass back and forth above me. It stands out, her ass. Her back goes straight down, tapers out a little bit over her lower back, and then her butt leaps out in almost a perfect half-circle. I could stand on top it, on the shelf as they call it, and it juts out above me, and beneath it—in what I call the “tuck” of the butt, for lack of a better term—it scoops down into an endearing (if tremendous) teardrop shape, plenty of semicircle left before it rejoins her thighs.

It’s sheltering. She’s standing with the backs of her thighs against the mattress, and her huge, proud butt is directly above me, even a little beyond me. Straight overhead, she casts a shadow over my tiny body as though I were in a cave, almost. I can see light between her inner thighs, I can see her vanity on the other side of the room. Her massive thighs don’t quite close, but they come close: they rise up from the edge of the bed, they grow larger and nearly touch, and then the skin rolls away right at the crotch. There’s that magical space at the top of her inner thighs, right where the panties stretch down over her pussy. Just enough room for a little guy like me.

So when she sways her butt, it’s actually shifting far to the left and far to the right above me. Two semi-spheres blotting out the sky, a thin veil of abused cotton stretching over them, and behind that the deep shadowy chasm between her cheeks. The dark, plunging line of her crack sweeps to the left, swings back overhead, and swings to the right.

There’s too much to see here, I don’t want to miss anything: I want to study just one butt-cheek, see how it flexes when she walks, study how it shakes with each step. I want to see her inner thighs sliding against each other when she walks, watch how they crush against each other when she sits. But every feature is larger than an extra-large movie theater screen, larger than the IMAX, and it’s all going on at once, this delirious display of over-sexuality and voluptuousness. Everything I look at means I’m missing some other amazing thing.

I can feel her heat. Beneath me, there’s only my own heat preserved in the soft quilt covering her bed. Far to my left are her pillows; not so far to my right is the foot of my bed, where the world drops away, and beyond that is the open door we came through to get here. There’s a plain white wall behind me, and ahead of me (below my feet, as I lay down) are the goddess’ tremendous, thundering thighs. I can feel the body heat she radiates, standing there without touching me. It feels sweet, the way that certain flowers smell or certain desserts taste. The heat is definitely sweet, and my entire body tastes it.

Then her panties are gone. She was reaching for them, her huge thumbs slid beneath the waistband and started to pull them down over her butt. That butt that stands out so proudly, defiantly, that juts out so sharply with the unrelenting swell of ass-meat—it finally defeated her panties. They shredded, I watched them dissemble into a hundred threads. Gaps formed and widened rapidly, racing across the pale skin of her butt. Soon there was nothing, just some shreds of fabric fluttering away in a manner that would never happen in real life. This is part of her dream: she touched her panties and they were gone.

Now I’m staring up at her bare ass. I have not sufficiently described her skin: she’s pale, like her body is never exposed to the sun. Her skin is a healthy orange-pink, maybe peach, but still pale. She appears very smooth everywhere. There’s one mole up by her left shoulder and a very pale rose birthmark on her right side, above her hip and beneath where her forearm rests, but otherwise as smooth, broad, featureless terrain that reminds me of satin. On her thighs and on the butt-cheeks that loom directly above me, there are tiny, tiny little transparent hairs, very short and fine. I’m sure no one could feel them if they ran their hand over them, and at my size I’m sure they couldn’t be very strong or stubbly. Her skin is the picture of health. On her hips I can see some faint traces of stretch marks, but not too much: her size must’ve grown at a steady, slow pace over a long period of time, no real rapid spurts in enlarging. And on the enormous sphere of her ass, there are only a few dimples of fat cells—what I refer to, insultingly, as “cottage cheese.” She doesn’t have much cottage cheese at all, which would tell me her ass is fairly solid to the touch. A normal-size hand wouldn’t descend in the skin, it wouldn’t rise weak and flabby around the fingers; her ass would resist in a delicious way. If my fingers dug into her butt-cheek, there would be a little fight between me pressing in and her ass resisting as a whole, and that resistance would drive me crazy with desire.

This dead-eyed, prayerful woman has a perfect body, perfect for my appetites, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she had never shared it with anyone. What a crime. How many wonderful, perfect bodies grow into ripeness and then wither on the vine, untouched, unloved, because their carriers, their pilots are trained only on the thoughtless repetition of worship for this deity? What a slap in God’s face: He puts you on this planet of His design, He endows you with the greatest body for sexual intercourse, and you spit on His gift by shutting yourself from the world of His creation, pantomiming worship of Him while you rebuke all He has given you. It’s a short-sightedness that extends into arrogance, claiming to have better judgment than the Architect who created thee.

But here she is, and I am in her dream. She is gargantuan, stretching on up into the heavens before me, most of her body blocked out by the enormity of her ass. What a view, what a blessedly, outrageously fantastic view. And it only gets better as she stirs from her statuesque posturing and, once more, slowly bends at the hips. I can tell because her thighs have tensed and her ass, her planetary, bare ass is spreading. The roundness spans out to the sides, growing wider and wider, and the deep, plunging crack directly above me runs even further north, up out of my line of sight. I can peer into eternity there, the panties gone: I stare up into the yawning chasm of her butt as her cheeks swell and spread to either side, and the ambient light climbs up between her buttocks to reveal her small, pink, hairless anus before me.

Does she shave? Does this God-fearing woman, modest in her dress, modest in her home decoration, actually take time out in the privacy of her bathroom to shave her pubic hairs? She is completely bald down there: there are no dark whiskers around her anus, there is no mounting undergrowth along her perineum, there are no scraggly threads glowing with light they catch in her crotch, over her pussy. Just smooth, bald, healthy skin as far as I can see.

And then I can see nothing. The last thing I see is that prettily puckered asshole directly above me, and then her buttocks touch the quilt to my left and right, and they swell and press. I feel my body sinking as the mattress beneath me sags under the prayerful woman’s enormous ass, and the cheeks stop spreading but her anus descends upon me. It’s clean, it’s spotless, there’s not a trace of the earthy musk of fecal matter. It’s just a starburst of tiny wrinkles emanating from one little hole—it’s almost comical that on a woman that large, anything should be that small, but that tiny anus looks like it would be a tight squeeze even for me, at this size.

Not my penis, no. I could slip my cock between any of those wrinkles and get off. I could slide my cock at its hardest right into the epicenter of her ass and she wouldn’t feel a thing. She might feel my tiny hips rubbing at her anus, if she were very still and paying attention. But right now it’s a couple feet above my head (my scale), and then one foot, and at this distance I can see it quivering, flexing, clenching. It’s like, independent of the rest of her body, her asshole is quivering with anticipation of me. Six inches away from my face now, the wrinkle-rays spread around my head, and her anus sucks in for a second, clenching. It relaxes and spreads, almost reaches for me, and then it clenches and retracts again. Is she doing this on purpose? It’s beautiful, I wish I could tell her how much I love this, how deeply I appreciate everything she’s doing right now. I wish I could sing my praises directly to her, worship her for hours and days, fill her heart with the love I feel for this perfect, beautiful being.

Her anus relaxes, and two folds of skin brush against my nose. Immediately it retracts again, highly ticklish, and I grin. I grin into the broad, wide anus of my goddess. Her sphincter relaxes slowly, her anus descends upon me, and now it covers my face. It would be a kiss, puckering around my face, my nose directly in the center of the hole. Her entire butt relaxes and I sink deeper into the  mattress with her, and her anus presses hard into my face. I think she’s writhing again… yes, the orifice is rubbing on the left side of my face and then the right. My goddess is rolling her hips and grinding her asshole onto my head. I help her: I can’t move the rest of my body, pinned flat beneath the ample ass-meat, but I can crane my neck up and shove my face into her asshole.

This is insane. I can feel her sphincter flutter and relax, and then it slides over my cheeks, over my ears. The front half of my head is surrounded by her sensitive, twitching anus. I can’t see anything, I can’t hear anything but the blood roaring in my ears (my cock, hard as steel, is poking futilely against a small section of her inner butt-cheek), and her body heat is pouring into me like a waterfall. I waggle my head slowly in her anus, and it clenches around my entire skull in response. Still no foul smells, it’s entirely clean in here—and why not? This is a dream, after all—and that’s the only reason I feel safe giving her a little kiss. Right on the inner ring of her asshole, I tilt my head down and kiss a ridge of skin running into her hole. This is for me; she can’t possibly feel this.

Slowly, my body rises and the crushing weight alleviates. The prayerful giantess is lifting off again, slowly, but not completely, for she has only scooted her tremendous rump back a little bit. A little to her, that is, but an entire time zone to me. There’s a brief glow of light, ambient light from her butt-crack behind my head and from between her thighs below my feet, and I see her crotch gliding just over me, slow in its massiveness. Her anus has released me, her perineum slowly glides past and then splits and wrinkles where the labia start.

There is one moment when I can see the enormity, the entirety of her vulva. Up by my head is where it starts, the true entrance to her vagina, and then the folds of skin get larger and thicker, more wrinkled and layered, until the labia majora engorge and form a double-door barrier over the smaller flaps of skin. All of it hot, all of it slick and moist with her lubrication—my God, she is so wet, everything is glistening and starting to form huge, round droplets above me. And her lips spread slightly when she descends upon me once again.

Now I’m coated in her lubrication, her vasocongestion. It means her interior vagina is so aroused, there’s so much blood filling her walls, the lubrication is being squeezed out in massive quantities. Instantly, my body is drenched. My hair is matted to my skull, and I can just squirm my arms against my sides with zero friction. It’s an exciting feeling, as my body soaks up her heat and the juices of her arousal soak into the cells of my skin, and then her pussy crushes me.

The prayerful woman’s vagina is in peak shape, never having been overused by penises in her history. Everything is young and pink, firm and smooth. There are folds of labia but not too many, and none of them hang too low in long flaps. It’s all a flower in full bloom, waiting to have been picked but denied by its owner. But I’m here now, and without any conversation she is grinding herself into me.

The layers of wrinkled and slick skin folds are running up and down my body, surrounding and suffocating my head, then sliding down to spread over my legs and feet. Sliding back up and running around my chest and arms—and I can stick my head, my entire head, right up inside her pussy—then back down and my legs are briefly inserted inside her.

I’m in the wrong position. I want to go insider her now, but the way I’m angled, I would go in head-first. That’s not what I want to do. She’s grinding against me, into me, pressing me into the bed—the quilt around me is thoroughly soaked—but the folds of her labia give me a little wiggle room. I struggle to turn around, rotate myself on the bed. Thank God for her copious lubrication: I slide around, her labia swimming over me, rippling in large, ticklish waves embracing me in whatever position they find me. I run along their length, they hug me from head to toe. I turn slightly, they hug me from my shoulder to my opposite hip. I curl up into a ball, they spread to embrace and suck on me from all sides. It takes some work but now my feet are pointed toward her darling anus and my head is closer to her clit. Oh, I wish there were time to play with her clit, but I have got to be inside her, no matter what.

I wait for her to slide back, her pussy running down the length of my tiny body, and just before she swings back I lift my feet and shins up, right inside her vulva. Her motion takes care of the rest: my shoulders braced upon the dense quilt fabric, I feel my legs sucked up inside her vagina, the tender, slick, burning hot skin massaging my legs and devouring my hips. More than halfway inside her, I can grab her labia (it takes a moment to find some folds of skin small enough to grasp, once the lubrication is wiped away) and then it’s the quilt that slides beneath me. I’m now a unit with her pussy, clinging to her labia, my legs kicking and treading inside her vagina.

She knows this, too. There’s no point to grinding, and my orientation of gravity shifts as she rises once more. There’s an explosion of light: she has thrown up one of her thighs onto the mattress and allows her titanic body to fall onto the bed. “Up” means nothing to me, I can only hold on as it wheels around me, and I bury my face into the folds of her labia, holding my breath, to keep from getting disoriented. My body is carried with hers in tremendous, earth-shaking heaves of momentum: she has hit the mattress and is bouncing slightly, small to her but—as with everything—huge to me. I can feel the muscles clench around my hips and thighs when she hauls her other leg on up to the bed, and finally she is lying down. I imagine her to be staring blankly at the ceiling, her huge breasts spreading and falling toward her upper arms, her belly rising and falling with breathing. Is she breathing hard? I can’t even tell—I wonder what all this means to her, this tiny man scrambling inside her virginal pussy. Aside from the abundant flow of hot, sticky pussy juices, I can’t read her reaction in the least way. Is she smiling? Are her eyes clenched with incipient climax? I wish I knew.

But I’d have to climb out, drag my body over her labia and clit, scrabble for handholds up over her mons to access her belly, and then it would be a long stroll over her stomach, up to her ribs, up between her breasts to her neck, another climb up her chin, and then a very unsteady crawl over her jaw and lips to perceive her facial expressions. If she’s dull and still, it would be nothing to perambulate and study her face; if she’s into it, if she’s suddenly come to life, everything would be a threat: her mouth and lips, if she’s gasping for air, her teeth that could sever me in half; her nose, gusting with hot air or threatening to suck me inside her nostrils; and if I got too near her eyes or any sensitive patches of skin, that’s just inviting one massive hand to come flying up over the horizon and squash me flat. Maybe her fingernails would reach me first, scraping off my skin and shredding me into pieces. Not good.

So in her pussy I will stay. Maybe in her dream she will talk to me afterwards, when all this is said and done. I kick my legs and tread them, threading through her sensual inner tissues, more pussy juices frothing up around my waist. I’m trying to scissor-kick my way inside her, but I’m not sure of my progress. I’m trying to tug on the skin I can grasp with my tiny fists and pull myself down into her, and that helps a little. Her vulvic clenches were hugging my pelvis, but now the entrance is up to my waist. Kicking, grasping, pulling, and then there’s a tight, sopping clench around my rib cage. Good progress.

Her body is holding completely still. No heaving or shuddering, where any movement she made would rock me back and forth as if I were on a roller coaster. She’s totally motionless, and I wish to God I knew what was going through her mind. I reach up with one slender, tiny arm and wrap my fine little fingers around the ball of her clit. I try stroking her clit, rubbing my fingertips inside her hood; I press my palm flat upon the sensitive pink nub, mashing it into her skin, rolling it around in broad circles; I even squeeze it, clench it as hard as I can, rake my nails over it. I even try punching it, as ridiculous as that sounds. I draw my tiny arm back, ball up my wee fist, and just pummel that resilient little nub as hard as I can, over and over.

Nothing. Not a twitch, not a shudder, not even a distant moan a quarter mile away.

Sighing, I return to gratifying myself and can work myself inside her vulva better and better. Now I’ve tucked my left arm inside her, and her next clench crushes my ribs and shoulder. Good. More scissor-kicks, more squirming of hips, and now one arm inside her, grasping at the walls, trying to pull myself down. Eventually I can tuck my clit-clobbering arm inside as well, and when her vulva clenches, it sucks my shoulders down inside and tightens around my head. That’s all that sticks out now: I can see ahead where the folds of labia close to meet her clit, and they rise up around me, spread like the petals of a lily. They are a ravishing deep pink, burning hot and coated in glistening fluid. I turn my head and lap at her skin, and this of all things gets a reaction. More clenching, as I drink down the sweet-salty lubrication, and I respond by letting my body go crazy. My arms are thrashing, my legs are kicking, my hips and spine are twisting crazily inside this dense, smooth, wet sleeping bag-like passage. Every time she clenches me with her vulvic rings, I try to resist: I spread my arms and legs, I put my shoulders into it and press them open again with negligible success.

And now her clenches are working rhythmically, in sequence. They clench around my ankles, around my hips, around my chest, and my body slides down and her pussy lips rise up around the sides of my head. She clenches my feet, my knees, my arms and sides, and then the engorged, drenched labia swell up from the periphery of my view and close over my face.

Darkness. Very hot, slick surfaces, swimming in her abundant, flowing juices. I can hear the blood in her body now, plus the pounding of my own heart. She clenches and squeezes me from every conceivable angle, and my entire body tingles with the ticklish rippling of that slippery skin running over me. She’s drawing me even deeper inside her. When my lungs start to burn, I stretch one arm up over my head, but my hand can’t even find the cool air, just more labia, thick and writhing over my grasp.

Now I’m kicking harder, scissoring in the opposite direction if that’s possible. My arms are swimming upward, my tiny fingers are digging into her vaginal walls, but they are so tiny and her tissues are so thick. They just give way as a unit, my hand slides uselessly over them, and then her pussy crushes me again, and the body-length stroke of her tissues tell me I’m even deeper inside.

I’m struggling, my lungs are starting to spasm, and she crushes me. My arm was in an awkward position that time and it hurt. I’m kicking, I’m grasping in the tight confines, and she crushes me again. And again.

This was a dream. Her pussy crushes me and twists my legs. This was supposed to be a dream. There shouldn’t be a stabbing in my lungs. Her pussy clenches me and wrenches my shoulders, and I go even deeper inside her. How deep does she need me? Why does it hurt to be in a dream?

The clenches come more rapidly now. She’s starting to come. Her juices flow over me everywhere, even more than before. There’s no friction now, I’m just squirming desperately in these flexible layers that press against me. Clench, clench, spasm. She’s coming hard. I need to breathe—must not open my mouth, my eyes. More clenching, more spasming. My ribs are being crushed, it’s hard to struggle, and now my feet are starting to tingle. More spasming, her pussy is churning now, and I think I can feel her cervix around my feet. It’s tilting, she’s aroused to the point where her uterus shifts and, oh my God, I can feel it beneath my feet. Clenching faster, crushing harder, can’t breathe, so much juice, so much lubrication all over me, and against my will my mouth opens and my lungs fill-…

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