“Hey, ready to take a break?” Tana Hands asks, though there’s no real possibility to say no. She looks so happy there, long, thin body towering over me, that hideously giddy expression of delight stretched across her narrow skull. And once she asks that question, it’s like she’s frozen in ice until she gets my answer. Doesn’t move a finger, doesn’t sway to the side, not even a lock of that frizzy blonde hair tumbles around her face while she leers at me, eyebrows arched.
I’m in the middle of reconciling last quarter’s budget, but she wouldn’t understand it and she doesn’t pick up on social cues. Not when she wants something, anyway. I stare at the screen in a (futile) attempt to burn it into my memory, sigh, let my tiny hands fall from the miniature keyboard and slump to the broad field of course-woven acrylic fibers everyone else finds so comforting.
“Sure, Tana,” I force a smile. “I’d love to get some lunch with you.” Uselessly, I ask her when she’s thinking about going.
With a giggle, she swiftly folds at the waist and throws her upper body at me with vengeance and some help from gravity. Now that clownish rictus is heaving steam right into my body. Her large, pale hands wheedle out the rim of her sweater vest’s neck. Even as she stood, I could see those monstrous nipples standing, poking proudly through the brown wool. Now, bent over and sheltering me like the drive-in at an A&W, she hooked one bra cup away from one tremendous boob, from which stood a large mocha gumdrop. Laughing quietly, she wrenched her shoulder upward, tucked the sweater vest down, and swung that boob closer to my person. When that much mass swings at you through space, unimpeded, your instinct is to dodge or block it, but last time I did that Tana became embarrassed and I had to hammock in her hairy ass crack for lunch break. Better to preserve the gentle giantess’s feelings.
I smiled up at her and reached out to her chest. When she held that prominent nipple to me, I dug my fingers into its knobbly sides and pulled myself in. My legs swung and slapped against her underboob (at normal perspective, she’s not that endowed) and I hooked my chin upon her nipple. It’s a cute little pose I know she loves. Tana sighed happily and stood up. The acrylic chair weave swept out from under my feet and my tiny body raced through the chill of office space, where breezes actually move, as opposed to the stagnation on my chair, around my miniaturized workstation. Now I had to clutch onto her nipple for dear life (or at least to prevent any broken limbs from the fall), but what that means is the tighter, the dearer I hug and claw into her stumpy brown nipple, the more aroused it becomes. So it’s a secure handhold, as the rest of her pale, silky smooth boob sways and heaves all around me, above my head and below my feet. This is the only constant in my world right now, this warty brown nipple. And she grins at me, so I grin back and nipple on the edge of that enormous breakfast sausage.
Something about that delights her—who knows the minds of women?—and then her shoulders start to erupt. They cantilever far off to the sides and above my head, alternating thrusts into space and… oh no, I get it. This is what she calls a “shimmy” and it’s intended to make her boobies sway. Well, she’s not that big, as I might have mentioned, so all it does on my end is elicit a series of rapid, tense tremors. I grip onto that wrinkly nipple with everything I’ve got, even curling my spine and trying to clamp it with my knees. This is only delightful to Tana, enormous, affectionate, consummately clueless Tana, and so she looks to me for praise and admiration as she makes my life difficult. She’s convinced she’s being seductive, and it’s in my best interests to perpetuate that delusion.
It’s not all misery for me, mind. Her skin is warm and sweet, so if I close my eyes it’s easy to picture me far from a data entry hive. I smell flowers, a hint of caramel, and in the distance the sharp musk of her armpit. It’s not bad, it’s just a momentary shock, and part of my mind wonders what it would be like to crawl around her medium-sized boob and tuck myself up into her armpit, you know, just for a day. Would that be so bad?
It could. Those thoughts usually flee my mind once I’ve had a good wank, so I hope I can get off soon and not entertain these ridiculous, life-threatening nuances. I simply buried my face in her nipple—never been able to find any of those tiny milk ducts I keep hearing about—and present the illusion I’m making love to her modest tit.
She giggles, as always, my slightly stupid Tana Hands, outclassing me by several dozen magnitudes. I really do have some affection for her, regardless of how I talk, and oh my God, I’d miss her if Tana ever got tired of me and left tiny little ol’ me to my own designs. I have to be honest about that. Tana gives me a lot, and I wonder what I bring to the table.
Anyway, she laughed gently, cradled me in the soft pads of her inner fingers, and slipped me and her little boob into her snug bra cup for the time being. She settled that beneath her linen shirt, and then she smoothed her vest, and then she patted me affectionately (kind of like a large spanking but without vehemence).
And with that, we are off to lunch.