She’s seated in the front of the bus, up where she can get off quickly in case someone assaults her. She dresses dowdily, likewise to deflect the attention of those daytime rapes that happen in crowded public settings.

Today she’s in a starchy linen floral-print shirt, buttoned at the wrists and up to the neck, where her tulip collar meets. The sleeves are roomy, vaguely hiding the length of her slightly padded arms and utterly conflating her rather small chest with her rounding belly. And a broad twill skirt, fitting snugly at the waist and spreading out like an excited landscape as the complicated fabric spans and stretches over fully ample hips and the thighs she strains to keep clamped in her seat. It’s inadvertently sexy, the way she sits, perched on a lasciviously bouncy sphere of round butt and hips, her ample thighs straining the fabric that drapes around them. Even if she assumes she’s eligible to be raped in the downtown area, sometime between breakfast and lunch, she would never guess that anyone on the bus looks at her with desire and appreciation.

Yet one does. She doesn’t notice me sitting across the aisle from her, each of us with our heads down in our books. She’s reading a small volume in marbly green leather, some kind of gold icon embossed on the front: most likely some aspirational writer’s praiseful chapters on how great her religion is, supported by pillars of philosophy and conjecture. Her beady brown eyes are trained hard into the tiny pages; her full and pink lips purse cutely, unconsciously, as she focuses upon absorbing the magical words that will make her a better person. Her mousy bangs are flawlessly sharp, and the rest of her hair is pulled back in a sprightly ponytail, held in place with a modest auburn elastic binder.

I don’t even know what I’m reading. As soon as I saw her wide hips sashay onto the bus, I stopped reading. All I saw was the dashingly sculpted curve of her buttocks in profile as she paid her fare, a bold, fierce curvature that glowed momentarily in a beam of sunshine. Then I had to watch her, soak her in with my eyes as much as I could until she disappeared in the back of the bus. But no, there were three loud and playfully angry black men in the very back, so she positioned herself as near the front exit, beside her bodyguard-cum-bus driver, as she could. Which put her across from me, the pervert who couldn’t tear his eyes away from her, constantly trying to find the happy medium between pretending to read and swiveling my head to the side enough to lessen the strain on my leering eyeballs.

When she plopped down, I imagined a tiny version of myself, standing on the blue vinyl bus seat beneath her. Tiny Me threw up his arms and shrieked for her attention, only to be buried under forty thousand tons of sweet, shuddering woman-flesh. Her rounded hips and thighs expanded upon collision with the seat and spread, as if claiming the suburbs around her ass for their own. Tiny Me would have been crushed flat, perhaps surviving long enough to feel the body heat seeping from one planetoid buttock through the coarse fabric and into my own diminutive body. When she adjusted herself briefly in her seat, I like to think she would have bounced voluptuously upon me, perhaps situating Tiny Me right in the crack between her enormous buttocks, a kind of hug to see me off before my soul fled my abused body.

And I can’t stop staring as we drive along: every repaired crack in the road, coated in tar, and every divot and pothole, they all cause the bus to rumble so slightly. Yet the shock of their transmission is amplified in her lap and hips, which shudder and jiggle with their own excitement. As she dully focuses upon her unimaginative literature, it’s easy to imagine her ass and thighs are their own creature entirely, experiencing the world independent of their bland governess, rippling with their own thrills and secret desires.

I spend a long time dwelling upon the secret desires of those enormous hips and thighs.

Or when the bus turns the corner, when we lurch to one side or the other, she never tears her eyes from those onion-skin pages, as though they truly can save her ethereal soul from an eternity of physical torment (explain that one to me, someone). She never looks up or reaches out to steady herself, but her erect spine and upright carriage seem to swim pleasantly upon the perch of her abundant and cushioning ass. It’s hypnotic! Her torso remains perfectly upright, yet it skids to the right and her left buttock swells up in volume, swelling within heather-brown tweed. Her body rocks to the left, toward me, and then away, and her rounded hips disappear and reappear as required by their air-cushioning system. I wish very dearly she would roll around over me like that, wondering what it would be like to feel those gigantic buttocks plant themselves on my chest and stomach, then feel them rock back and forth, feel them swell and glide all over my body.

My library book nearly slips from my grasp. I’ve totally forgotten about my own fingers, so intently am I studying the dull conservative woman blessed with ample proportions. I rest it flat upon my knees, plopping one hand limply upon its pages to keep them open, not even pretending to read anymore.

I fall into the fantasy of it: I’m lying on the edge of her bed, the Tiny Me who is only a few inches tall. I’m naked and she’s nude, and she’s delighted to see me, as much so as I am to be here with her. Her dull, beady eyes blink at me as her plump lips tug back into a very simple grin, and her hands float somewhere around her sides, as though she doesn’t know what to do with them when she’s not wearing any clothes. I stare up at her, past the powerful, rounded thighs swaying by my feet, up past the grove of dark pubic hair and up over her pronounced belly. Her breasts are small, but from my angle and at my size, they stand out with pleasant fullness far, far above my tiny frame. And beyond them still, her pink and wet lips pull back to reveal two rows of small and yellowed teeth, as if she smokes or just doesn’t brush enough.

Why the hell would I fantasize about that? Damn it. Well, she just seems like the type, I can’t help it.

She stands at the edge of her bed, looking down at me, and sometimes I can’t see her dopey, excitable grin when it disappears behind her breasts, from my angle. Her pudgy belly sways left and right above me, the cave of her navel pointing in one direction or another. Her thighs shift where the bed ends and curves down to the floor, below my feet. Her thighs sway as well, left and right; her huge hips rock and one thigh, then the other swings toward me until I could almost feel the soles of my minuscule feet land upon them.

Abruptly she turns around, craning her stupid face to look at me over her shoulder. She’s so delighted with herself, it feels uncharitable to criticize her, especially when she’s being so generous with her body with me. I’m just a little bug, a fragment of a person, and she’s sharing the lavishness of her voluptuous goddess-form with me, even if she looks like an idiot while doing it.

Her hips rotate slowly in space above me, as though I’m circling a planet. The acre of dense, dark pubic hair rotates away from me to the right, and her tremendous buttock approaches and reveals its twin hidden behind it. Soon, two perfectly shaped, blessedly abundant buttocks are hovering above me in space, themselves like twin planets, impossibly close and glorious in their shape and size. They too sway back and forth, tantalizing, taunting me. If you want us, why don’t you come up and get us? they call to me, knowing all I can do is lie here and witness. Aww, that’s a shame, they sing mockingly. Well, maybe we have to come and get you.

She stops craning to leer over her soft shoulder at me. Her head ducks down, then her shoulders, then her spine curves as the entire upper half of her body bends and droops toward the floor. This causes her hips to widen and expand, standing proudly and prouder still to the left and right, spreading and filling out even more than I would have thought possible. And the skin on her ass becomes taut, and any stretch marks or marbling in fat disappear: as she bends over, her ass becomes more and more perfect, smoother, paler (is that possible?), and even larger and rounder than ever before. Then, between her two titanic ass-cheeks, the deep fissure becomes slightly shallow and more light is admitted, turning the impenetrable black into a muted brown of shadow, and there it is. Below the tremendous, perfect, rounded ass-cheeks and above her titanic thighs, right in the center where the tuck of her cheeks meets the crack of her ass, her vulva begins to emerge. It’s soft and subtle at first, just two small rounded mounds of flesh, two mere foothills of skin and tissue, sparsely covered in straggling pubic hair.

I spot her thick and swollen labia just one second before she falls back to the bed, ass first. As impossibly huge as her butt appears, it grows and spreads to block out everything else as she descends upon me. The cute and coy glimpse I caught of her pussy rushes at me and smacks into me, squiggly hair brushing at my face as her gigantic ass plows into the mattress not far above my head. I wish I’d been there, I think, getting caught by and driven into the enticing crevasse between her ass-cheeks. But having an enormous, body-length pussy mash itself into me is not bad either.

Her outer labia are thick and hot, and they burn down the length of my body from my shoulders to my ankles. The moisture in her vagina is steadily streaming out and coating all surrounding skin, so the opening to her vaginal canal secures itself around my tiny head, and my face is bathed in her juices. This big girl is ready to go, and I can’t shake the image of her simple, unguarded grin even as she grinds her pussy into me, her labia majora becoming meatier as they spread to either side of me and her lubrication coats my torso and limbs.

Her pussy clenches on me. It does. I can feel it twitch, I can sense all the spasms going on up and down her canal, just above my face. I try to plant my hands into her labia and push her away, knowing its futility: instead, my tiny hands nudge deep into her meaty pussy-lips, as though a regular-sized lover were only massaging her with his fingertips. Juices trickle down my arms, hot and runny, and now I can see the entrance to her vagina seize and clench, in anticipation of sucking me down like a raw oyster.

Abruptly my ears are filled with a rasping sound as my scenery shifts: she drags her tremendous hips forward and her pussy slides down my body. Her meticulously clean anus slides into my view, even as I discover the thrill of bicycling my legs inside her vagina. It’s right there, I mean, and my legs are fully slick, so it’s nothing to bring them up and insert them into her pussy, then kick and slosh them around inside her. She seems to like it, if her fluttering and puckering anus is any indication. Rapt with wonder and curiosity, I squeeze one arm up past the weight of her butt-cheek and splay my fingers to stroke or gently massage her wrinkled and cute asshole.

It flutters again, as though it too would like a piece of me. Seeing how ably her pussy has now sucked me in up to my waist, her anus feels clear in asking for the top half of my body, or maybe just my arms. With every feathery stroke I administer, her asshole ripples and shudders, pulsing open and clenching shut. It wants me, I can tell, and I wish my cock were big enough to shove inside it and fill it up, but not even my entire fist, not both my arms up to the elbow would be noticed inside her butt, at this size.

Her pussy clenches and pulls my legs in deeper. They’re hot and wet and snug, and I can feel her vulvic muscles clenching around my thighs, then my hips, and finally locking around my waist. I’m going nowhere, escape is impossible. The dull and religious woman has slurped half of my body up inside her pussy, and I’m not interested in leaving. I’m exploring how best to make her tender and pink anus dance and flutter at my touch.