My entry for MyHeavenOct20, the final Size Riot writing contest.
There weren’t any seats on the bus. I get it, there were hardly any when I got on. I had to squeeze past overflowing hips and step over adolescent legs stretched across the aisle to find a spot in the back row. The person beside me got off two stops later, so I got to slide up against the window. The corner’s not a bad spot to be, it’s fairly private and no one needs to get past you.
Then we passed under some power lines. I thought they just caused brain cancer, but today they shrunk me down. Five thin shadows passed over the bus, the air thickened with a loud KZZ-ZAP, and suddenly I was sitting in a large bowl of wool and moquette. I sat up, rolled comically to my back as the bus stopped, and within a minute someone else took my seat.
She didn’t know it. She thought she found the one empty corner seat on a crowded bus. What luck! A hot day like this, nothing better than to hunker down in the corner of a bus with functional AC. I watched her pale green tank top skootch up her sides as she slumped in the seat, watched her insert her airpods, watched the heavy denim seam of her cutoffs inch toward me. I had a split second to roll back and scurry to the edge of the seat before her ass came crashing down, but now I was trapped between her long, smooth thighs. Trapped, unless I liked my odds with dropping to the corrugated rubber floor and dodging an entire nation of shoes, boots, and sandals on my way to the rear exit.
In my flight to escape her butt, I was left clinging to the lip of the seat, my legs dangling far above her bare feet, tapping along to her music in nearly new Birkenstocks. The synthetic fibers of flame-retardant upholstery bristled against my forearms while her vast thighs stretched around me. Creamy, unblemished, and nearly hairless, they shuddered massively each time the bus’s tires skipped over a fault in the road, and this part of town hadn’t been slated for upgrades in a long time. It was like an earthquake in a valley of pudding… butterscotch, maybe. Long and lean muscles rumbled beneath a casing of more excitable fat and taut skin. These enticingly sculpted limbs met under a scant sheath of cutoff short-shorts, not very far away from me. My body weighed nothing, so I could hang on indefinitely, but if I hauled myself up there would be very little space between me and the twin hollows where her inner thighs met her crotch, where fringed jeans hid a narrow strip of panties or a thong… or nothing at all.
My heart was pounding. Everything about this was so right, and so incredibly wrong. I looked up at her, over the wrinkled fabric on her belly, where her shirt jiggled over her chest, up at the jaw turned toward the window, at the glimpse of white headphone beneath a coppery bob. How could she not notice me? Didn’t people look where they were sitting? Did I?
I screamed when one of her legs moved. No one could hear it at my size, over the roaring engine. The immense thigh on my left shifted and rose as she propped her foot up on the wall mount of the seat in front of her. That’s all, she was just stretching, getting comfortable. Now the lower tuck of her butt cheek was exposed, slipping out of her short-shorts and resting upon the bus upholstery. The bristles that stabbed at me were mashed flat by her cheek. That could’ve been me under there, for better or for worse. Now a gap appeared under the crack of her ass, a shadowy space between the seam of her jean shorts and the bus seat, walled by the inner chasm of her butt cheeks. Sunshine caught the few glassy, fine hairs along her inner thighs, and it caused the blue seat to glow just enough to illuminate this new space under her. I realized I could probably just fit in there, very snugly. I stared and stared at it, as the rumbling bus made her firm thighs shake, watching her cheeks shudder and roll with each turn.
I looked up again. She was fixated on the passage of the scenery. If she hadn’t noticed me by now, she likely wasn’t going to. I took a deep breath, flexed my shoulders, and hauled my little body up onto the seat between her legs. Plenty of room, between her thighs: one leg was propped up and arched high overhead, the other was spread far to the side. Plenty of room. Without taking my eyes off that angular head far above me, I rolled to my side, pulled up my legs, and crawled a little closer to her, further from the edge.
It was incredible. She was totally tuned out to what was going on around her. Maybe she had a long ride ahead of her and was resigned to studying the houses and shops we drove past. Maybe she was listening to a good podcast and wasn’t using her eyes at all. Whichever: she didn’t notice a tiny man sitting up between her thighs.
The fly of her shorts was nearly in arm’s reach. Her inner thighs curved and rose around me, shaking deliciously. I was entirely between her legs! I could feel the heat radiating from her skin, and over the musty bus air I could sense perfume. Was it body wash? Did she spritz her underwear when getting dressed? Intrigued, I crawled toward her crotch.
I still had yet to catch a glimpse of any underwear beyond the fuzzy fringe of her cutoffs. It was just bulging inner thighs leading to the hollows where the skin disappeared behind the denim, and the slightest stubble along the deepest recesses. She shaved, maybe she shaved this morning. Would that explain the flowery scent? I crept closer.
I could reach her. I placed one palm up on the fly of her shorts, amazed at the rough texture. If I’d been her size, they would’ve been soft and time-worn, but now I could feel every tiny twisted and woven thread. The seam felt hard and dense, a narrow wall between me and her most private sexuality. Fine wrinkles appeared, running from below her belly over a ledge of connective muscle and retreating under the jeans. The skin darkened, too, from the peachy thigh that quaked beside me to something almost tanned, darkened with rubbing perhaps, peppered with those recently mowed hairs, dark and pointy. I crept closer.
If the engine made a noise, I didn’t hear it. If people sweated or farted, I couldn’t pick it out over the cloying flowers. The gigantic thighs churned around me, the long, tall crotch ground closer and closer to me. My hand slid from the folded and heavily stitched seam to the fuzzy fringe of the leg hole. My fingers were bathed in heat. It would have been nothing to shift an inch to the side and rest my hand upon the slight depression on the side of her pussy, or to lean forward and snake my hand inside her jeans, grope blindly—
The thighs closed around me in one swift move. There was no time to react: I was caught with my hand in the cookie jar when the skin rolled and that ledge of connective muscle bulged and all light was blotted out as two walls of sweet flesh sandwiched me.
Her skin was cool, however hot it was outside. All the trembling of the thin scrim of fat around her legs was now vibrating into me. My legs lifted off the stubbly fabric, my arm was trapped in its guilty position, and my body was carried wholly by the heaving thighs clamping me.
Shit! Shit shit shit!
I rode the shudders of the bus’s impact against her thighs for a long moment. Then those long muscles buried beneath the smooth skin and thin batting of fat suddenly strained. They squeezed me, hard. I was surprised that I wasn’t small enough to escape most of the pressure, but it seemed like she had me in pliers.
When light shone again, it flowed around her face, staring directly upon me. She spread her legs just enough to show her what she’d caught, not enough to let me drop and flee for my life.
Her eyes were huge and round, awake for the first time since she boarded. Her mouth, hanging slack, slowly pulled into a crooked grin. Her head raised and turned slightly, taking in the fellow passengers. Some must have left since last I was aware, between getting shrunken down and getting encased in thighs.
She didn’t look at me again. She returned to her indifferent slump, turning toward the window again. The foot that was propped up came down, her knee resting below the window. Her other knee came up until she could tuck her ankle over the first knee, framing a little arena around me and blocking me off from any other riders. It was clear that’s what was happening.
That allowed her fingers to slide like thick pythons down the delicate curve of her inner thigh. They slipped around me, tugged me away, and stashed me inside the seam running over her crotch. I couldn’t fight them, the three fingers that came for me. I put my back into her pointer finger, braced my arms against her middle finger, and I couldn’t budge them an inch. I grabbed at the fringe, and she pulled me away without hesitation. I flung my limbs wide to catch against her shorts, and she pushed me past effortlessly.
She wasn’t wearing underwear, and she had freshly shaved. Her huge fingers twiddled me briefly until she could mash my face and chest into hot, sticky folds of pussy flesh. It was shadowy in here, light pouring in from off her thighs, with a band of jean shorts blocking everything above, behind, and below me. Now I could see the lowest bulge of her ass, pert cheeks pressed against each other to form the chasm that ran up to her pussy. I could have reached out with one foot and tickled her asshole, I bet.
I didn’t think of that, because I was too busy pushing myself away from the pussy folds she rubbed me into. My weak arms could barely lift my face free of the writhing tissues, until her mere fingertip drove my face between them. Hearing went, sight went; sour filled my nose and stung my tongue.
I shouted, “Stop, stop!” and my voice was drowned by the bus engine. I screamed, “Help me! I need your help, I don’t know what happened to me!” and the words were buried in her pussy. I could feel skin and muscle clenching around my head when her forefinger drove me into her, shoving a flow of new liquid out. It ran down my chest and slipped around my head, and then there was no resistance. When she pushed me inside, I went inside. My arms wrenched behind my back. Thick cakes of rubbery flesh spread around me like a mouth opening to a spoonful.
Now I fought, I really fought. My head pulled out as my legs slipped into a seamy, slippery slit. “Stop this! I need your help! Please help me!” I shrieked, but who knows if my words got past that dense layer of denim. The fingers kept coming for me, running down my back, hammering my shoulders. I stared into a row of knuckles as pussy lips rose around my cheeks. Inside her, rings of hot, wet muscles clenched at me, and I slipped deeper.
“Help me!” I cried.
The moment before her tapering fingertip stuffed me inside, I heard her speak: “Nope. You’re all mine.”
One thought on “This Is Where We Get Off”
This was my anonymous feedback:
I should like to add that I admire the title both for its double-meaning as well as its message of inclusivity.
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