Every time I think about you slipping into my pussy, I need it so bad I can’t stand it. I have to masturbate. I have to. I have to grind my knuckle into my jeans, or excuse myself and slip out of the room and hope there’s no one in the bathroom. Or the parking lot, when I have to fold myself up in my back seat.
And I think about you all the time.
You turn me on so much, I can’t stand it.
I wish I were home, with no one who needs me and nowhere I have to be, nothing to do, and I wish I had you with me. It’s so hard not to throw my laptop across the room, slam my door behind me, flip off my boss, and just run out to my car and drive home like a suicidal maniac until the moment I can grab you out of my underwear drawer and throw myself to the bed. All day long my head’s full of you crawling all over my thighs, crawling up my tummy, crawling crawling everywhere. I let you crawl all over my skin as long as I can take it, an irritating, ticklish little bug. I wrap my fists around the headboard and dig my heels into the mattress, while you brush over my skin like the tip of a feather, wandering around on your own little unknowable path. I clench my eyes as you drift in slow circles around my bellybutton. You weigh next to nothing, so your whole body feels like the idle fingertip of a lover, tracing mystic circles over my skin. My breath hitches and my abs contract and you tickle my side when you tumble off my body. It’s so hard to be gentle with you when I reach for you, pick you up, and place you right on my bellybutton again. But this is our foreplay and I put up with it as long as I can. You have so much more patience for it than I do, wandering around and kissing every centimeter of my skin. All I want to do is stuff you up my pussy and squeeze you till I explode.
What the hell are you doing down there, anyway? Why does it take so long? Sometimes I think that you could go on for hours, stumbling around, pressing your hot little face to my skin so I can only feel it about every seventh or eighth time. Like if somehow I could endure this endless teasing, you could go on for hours, stopping only when you pass out from starvation or sleep deprivation. I will never know what’s going on in that little brain of yours.
When I can’t take it anymore, when I really can’t take it… when my toes are pinching the sheets and my body shudders uncontrollably with your impossibly light touches… I hold my breath and count to thirty, and if you haven’t stopped by them (and you never do), I snatch you up in one eager fist. It’s so hard not to crush you, lover. All the activity going on between my thighs, it’s like it gets transferred up my spine, down my arm, and wells up in my fist. Every clench of my pussy goes to my four fingers, and I just want to squeeze you until your fragile little bones snap and your juices run between my knuckles. But I would never! Holy fuck, I would never do that to you! I never want to hurt you, you’re too important to me! You just… fill me with the urges, and I wonder which day it’s gonna be that my logical, sane mind finally drowns in my libido and my body acts all on its own and does whatever it wants to you. I hope it’s not soon. I hope it never happens, of course, but if it has to, I hope it’s, like, decades from now. I want to fuck you a long, long time, little man.
Where would I ever find anyone else like you?
I can’t take the itch anymore, the scrape of your little fingers over my skin, the way your toes trail over the fine hairs on my belly when you scoot around. You don’t even slow down when my whimpers become moans become growls. You have no sense of self-defense, you just bumble around my belly, hearing me get madder and madder. My knuckles ache briefly when I release the headboard; my shoulder uncoils and my palm snaps down on you. Finally, a moment of relief from that incessant tickling! You know I love it, but holy fuck. It just goes on and on; it’s gotta be a violation of the Geneva Convention. You know, like torture, like torture’s illegal. Shut up.
Now that I’ve got you in my hand, you go limp. You know you’ll hurt yourself if you stiffen up, whether that’s to try and fight or just protect yourself. Experience has shown you that. You just go limp like a good boy and I slap you against my wet fucking pussy and leave you there to figure it out. My calves are twitching with the need to shove you inside me, but no. I just plaster you against my wet-ass pussy and grip the headboard again and dig my head into the pillows, waiting for your next move.
Maybe I smacked you too hard into me because you’re not moving. Catching your breath, or maybe I even knocked you out again. Sorry, if that’s what happened. You know I’d never intentionally hurt you, it’s just that you drive me crazy sometimes, and my primal basal system takes over. It’d be so much easier if you weren’t so fragile, you know? I could smack you against my pussy as hard as I wanted. I could sit on you and grind down and you’d just take it, pushing back into me until I sploosh. I could jam you inside me—my pussy, my butt, anywhere—and you wouldn’t fold in half or crumple. Holy fuck, just the thought of that… When my pussy clenches, I can feel your oh-so-slight weight resting on it. Not hanging there, there’s nothing to hang onto. You know I hate/love getting waxed every other month, nice and smooth. If you were my size, that’d keep you from choking on a stray hair in the back of your throat. Past boyfriends appreciated that, except the one who was grossed out and said I looked like an infant down there (which raises a couple dangerous questions). But for you, the absence of my dark-and-curlies means you have to rely on the angle of my hips (the slope of repose) to either rest on my pussy or slide to the bed. And you don’t want that, because that means Lady’s Choice. I mean, it’s my choice anyway, but it’s a little more fun if we set up some rules.
Well. If you’re passed out, then I guess I gotta wake you up. The best way to do that is to splash some cold water against your face, but I don’t have any of that. I have the opposite of that. One hand slowly glides over the landscape of my body—my bodyscape—sailing from the headboard over my boobies and down between my legs. My careful, sensitive fingers pick you out: yup, you’re KO’d and practically glued to my pussy. I pull you away, and your arms and legs hang like wet noodles; your head lolls around on your shoulders in a way that almost makes me feel sorry for you.
I tilt you toward me, and your head and shoulders slump forward, draped over my thumb. I slowly lower you, and you disappear behind my mons. Did you know the term “obscene” literally means “off-scene”? Ancient Greek theater wouldn’t show violence, so they’d have someone come running in from the side who’d describe all the action that happened off-scene: obscene. So when I can’t see you any more, when your little body disappears behind the mere modest mound of my flesh, it’s like you’re also being taken off-scene for some unspeakable violence. Of course it’s not violence, it’s an act of profound love and overwhelming need, but I can’t imagine how the ancient Greeks would’ve set up a stage to represent a tiny man being swallowed whole by some cavernous vulva.
Because that’s what happens to you. I shiver when your limp head brushes against my inner wings. I can feel you there, the solidity of your skull, the little nub of your ear. I don’t know if everyone’s as sensitive down there, but I am. I can feel your little head like a pebble pass between my lips. I carefully turn you sideways so your shoulders will slip easily into my slit. Slowly you start to fill me, and I could just piss myself, it feels so good to have you in there. It’s kinda like I’ve been missing a piece of myself and it feels so good to reinsert it, but it’s also like something special is filling me up, all exciting and new and my body’s not entirely ready for it but at the same time it wants it so bad. I don’t know how to explain it, but I get more and more excited as I slide you inside me, because of how good it feels to have something filling me up, and because I know it’s You, because it’s my tiny little man, because it’s another living person who belongs to me and you’re actually mine and I can slip you into my pussy and keep you there all day if I want. No one can do anything about it, least of all you.
There, now you wake up. When my soft lips suck you inside and seal your head in my hot, satiny folds and my juices slather over your face, and you can’t breathe, then you wake up like I knew you would. I grin to myself, feeling your weak little body kicking between my fingers. You can’t do anything, and the power I have compared to you is… it’s laughable, how much more powerful I am than you. Not quite as thoughtless as stepping on an ant, and a little less intentional than holding a frightened, domesticated mouse in my fist. Somewhere between those two.
I think about that all day, what it feels like to feel how weak you are. I can feel your spine against the tip of my index finger, like the spine of an anchovy or a sardine, small and fine and one second away from crumbling under my touch. The pad of my thumb fits right in your abdominal cavity, no joke. It’s like you were made for me, the way my carpal joint nooks into your hips and the tapering curve of my thumb fits snugly into the rim of your rib cage. And your guts don’t provide any resistance at all. That’s the only dicey thing about this sensation: I love how neatly your whole fucking body fits around my thumb like a worry-stone, but feeling your guts in general (I can’t tell your liver from your stomach from your intestines or what) just like this gelatinous blob against my thumb… that’s kinda gross, gross and scary. Like if my thumb twitched, completely unconsciously, just the slightest muscle spasm, I could make a jelly out of all the organs you need to digest food and filter toxins and all that. That doesn’t make me feel powerful, it makes me sick with how fragile you are. I get seriously nauseated at the thought that the least unconscious movement on my part could ruin my beloved little lover in a second, and forever. That’s such a scary thought I could puke.
I don’t want to puke, unless I’m cumming so hard it makes me puke. That would be acceptable, I think. We’ll have to try that someday, you and me.
You’re squirming in the entrance of my pussy, and I can’t tell you how much I love that. It’s the combinations of things, again: how weak you are, unable to fight back against my mere thumb and forefinger inserting you gently into the flower of my sexuality; how your fine, delicate arms feel when they mash into my pussy, slipping between the folds, barely able to shove my inner labia around; the rush my heart feels when you wake up from passing out, like you’re coming back to me from somewhere inaccessible, like you were on a mystical journey but I called you back and you returned to me dutifully, spluttering in the first inch of my pussy. All of it’s so wonderful and beautiful and hilarious and sensual, I don’t even know how to tell you. You have to trust me, it’s just the best thing in the world.
I guess I hope it’s good for you, too, getting to play around in my pretty pussy. I think it’s cute. I don’t mind admitting to you I’ve checked it out in the mirror, and I’ve looked at others online, and… if I may say so, I think mine’s adorable. It’s just cute and tidy and comes in nice colors, and holy shit, it doesn’t stop gushing! I get so fucking wet, especially when I think of you or when I’m playing with you. You’re a lucky little man, getting your own waterpark to play with, all slippery and fun. I guess it won’t always be like this, if what I hear from my mom and her sisters is true, so you and I have a responsibility to fuck as often as possible. I hope you’re up for it, but it doesn’t really matter if you’re not because it’s gonna happen anyway.
That sounds bad but I know for a fact you’re into it. We’re very lucky that way.
So as a courtesy to you, my sweet little lover-man, I reluctantly extract you from my honey-pot and turn you around. And you know what the deal is, so rather than kicking at my clit like you did a long time ago, now you stiffen your legs and clench yourself up like a little rod, and in you go without the least resistance. I can hardly feel your slender legs enter me, but I trust you’re there, and then I know it for a fact by the time my pussy’s swallowed you up to the waist and your chest. Once again I have to hold myself back and savor the moment, not go for everything all at once, as badly as I want to. I whimper piteously, I think, and I hold you there, locked securely but gently between thumb and finger, holding you immersed in my sexuality up to your armpits.
Sometimes I wonder what that’s like for you, what it’s like to slip into something like a sauna or a hot tub, but wrapped in, like, layers of microfiber blanket or something. It’s not an exact experience, I’m struggling to think of what’s that soft and that warm and that wet. Anything I can come up with sounds ridiculous: petroleum jelly at a low simmer, tied up in a slanket (remember those?); zipped up in a sleeping bag, lying in a kiddie pool of strawberry Jell-O while an octopus grapples you. Yeah, that’s dumb. None of it makes sense, but I’m really trying to understand what it’s like for you, my little lovebug. I know how hot I can get, when I slip a finger inside and feel around; I try to picture what that’s like when it surrounds your entire body. Do you love it? Is it something you endure because you love me? I know I’m greedy and I need you for my pleasure, but I kinda don’t want to think I’m causing you a lot of suffering. A little’s okay, now and then, but I don’t want you to dread me.
No, that’s silly. I know you look forward to this as much as I do. I can see the expression on your microscopic face. You smile so big until it looks like the top of your head’s going to fall off. Sometimes when you’re feeling silly, you reach and grope for my pussy or my tit like an overexcited puppy. I know you do that to make me laugh, but I also know you want me that badly. That’s good, because I want you too. It’s just easier for me to hold you back and make you wait than it is for you to restrain me.
Once you’re inside me, and after I hold you there for a second, you do this incredible thing with your legs. I imagine it’s just a simple bicycling gesture, you know, or maybe a scissor kick like when you’re treading water. I love the thought of your strong little legs churning inside me. Better than one stupid, blunt, blind finger swiping around in one direction, over and over. And my juices flowing over you, my pussy sucking on you, that’s like a kiss from me. I close my eyes and squeeze my pussy around you as tight as I can. Your body’s so narrow and skinny, I don’t know if I can clench hard enough so you’ll notice it. I feel you squirming when I’m at my tightest, and it doesn’t seem like I can pin you down or restrain you. I can definitely feel you in me, though, you and your boundless energy as you squirm and swim inside me.
I can’t help but bring you up to my mouth and lick you off. I only get a glance of your expression before you become too blurry, and then the only expression I can read from you is what your frenetic little body is doing in my mouth. Your spindly little legs flail around like you’re freaking out. You should know me by now: I’m not going to eat you. I get really tempted to nibble at you, sure. Those meaty little thighs swimming between my teeth, pumping against my tongue, and then the taste of me wears off flesh get the taste of you, your moist, sweating flesh… You have a particular flavor. I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s savory with a little sweetness. There are times when I want to know whether it’s on your skin or if it’s inside you, too, and if a bite of you would fill my mouth with you, and how wonderful that would be. I mean I’d miss you, of course, but that’s such a good taste. Sometimes when I’m thinking about you inside me I can almost taste you. You’re really in every corner of my imagination!
How can such a tiny thing take up so much space?
And down you go, back inside me. I love that this is mutual, that you love swimming around inside me as much as I love sliding you in there. The thought of you makes me horny, but actually having you in there sends me over the moon. You must know that: all those juices flowing over you, practically spitting at you. That’s what you do to me, little guy. Holding you carefully, feeling you squirm in me like that, you make my whole pussy tremble and produce a river of my ardor for you. When I bring you back up to my face, heh, you’re just dripping with me all over you. That’s how I know how much I can produce down there, seeing you completely coated like that. Sometimes it impresses even me. I hope you love it, feeling your giant woman gooshing all over you. Just once I’d like to know what it’s like to have a huge pussy quivering all around me, so I can get some idea of your experience. I don’t mean to be talked into it, no, I just want to know what you’re seeing and feeling, what you like about it, so I can do more of it for you. But things seem to be going pretty well the way they are so maybe it makes no difference.
It’s not enough to just hold you there, sometimes. I need to be an active participant, not just some giant sex-machine for you to workout in. You can kick and wheel around inside my slit, and I can dart you into me in staccato jabs. At that point I don’t care what your experience is, I’m not curious to know what it is to see a huge slavering pussy coming at you over and over. It’s all about me, and I’m using you for that with no apologies. Jabbing you inside me is kind of like someone slipping their little finger in there, but with greater flexibility. There’s absolutely no resistance, because my skin’s so soft inside me and there’s so much fucking juice everywhere. It’s like it creeps up my fingers with a life of its own, needing to spread and cover everything. I fucking soak the sheets at times like these—in the beginning I was ashamed of that, always having to do laundry after playing around with you, but later I saw it as a badge of pride. Hell yeah, I can churn out that much lubrication! You better believe I’m a copious bitch! Watch out or you’ll drown in me, fucker!
I would never let you drown, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about what that would be like. Slipping two fingertips onto your shoulders, plugging you deep inside me, feeling you squirm and swim around for the first several seconds… then how your motions would become faster, more frantic, your struggle less sensual and pleasure-based and more a manifestation of sincere panic. Your little hands flying out, groping for anything to hold onto, finding nothing but soft, smooth, pliable tissue all around you. And I’d get to feel your little body, freaking out like that, while I clench you up inside me. That would be the best part, trying to hold back the clenches and then just giving in and letting them hug you and seize you, feeling you fight in them as I get tighter and more needy. You couldn’t go on like that forever, it’s too much work and you’d need air, and again, the thought of harming you in any way makes me ill, but… up to that point… holy fuck, I really want to trap you in my pussy forever. If there was a way you could breathe underwater, that would just be the end of you. You’d never see daylight again, lover.
Maybe to relieve my conscience, I decide to play a little game with you. I stuff you inside me, then scoop you out with two fingers and drop you to my flat belly. I know how good it looks, I’ve seen pictures of what guys go for. What can I say, I’m naturally gifted. I just let you tumble for a short distance because I like to see you off-balance. It amuses me, seeing how much stronger I am than you and how easy it is to send you head-over-heels (that should be “heels-over-head,” I think. That’s always bugged me) while you struggle for stability. I don’t take pleasure in your suffering, but I definitely love your confusion. It’s cute.
But I keep scooping my juice out of me. It makes such a delightful slurping sound, my pussy lips smacking like they just ate something delicious (they did!), and then I smear it all over my belly. Scoop, smear; schlorp, smear. There’s plenty of my love-juices to go around, so I just keep pouring it on until it’s nice and slick. I have to move fast so it doesn’t dry and get gummy: I pluck you up, shove you inside me for good measure, and then deposit you into the pool of my own slick juices, on my belly.
It’s a flat belly, but not so flat. There’s a little mound to it, and you know this because I order you to stand up, and you’ve got this impossibly slick little hill to stand up on. Yeah, the odds are against you: my little mound of a belly, my spongy flesh, and how the whole thing rumbles under your tiny little feet when I laugh at your clumsiness. Because you can’t do it! If I were dead asleep, holding perfectly still except for slight breathing, and dry as a bone, then I think maybe you could get up and figure out how to navigate my resilient belly and walk around. I think you could. I’d love to watch what you’d do with my body while I’m asleep; alas. But now, there’s just no way. You got smart and thought about anchoring one bent knee in my bellybutton, and that was a good idea, but you couldn’t straighten your other leg out to lift your body. As soon as you rose out of my bellybutton, your foot would shoot off to the side, and your little butt would smack into the landscape of my tummy. Or they’d fly out behind you and you’d make the goofiest expression the second before your face plowed into my skin. And getting up afterward was just a disaster: you’d push yourself up and one of your arms would slip to the side and you’d collapse, and then I’m laughing too hard because of your stupid face, and you’re still trying to get up even though my belly’s completely frictionless and slightly hilly and shaking around you like a paint mixer. Holy fuck, you look so stupid! Trying the same thing over and over again, because maybe it’ll work this time, but it never does. Your tiny, light body slams into the broad plain of my firm, flat, damp belly and it feels like someone’s tapping for my attention but they’re too shy to do it very hard. You make just the slightest thump against my skin. I think if I were watching a movie and really into it, I wouldn’t even notice you.
I love that you keep trying, though. I love that about you. You don’t care how stupid you look, you keep clowning around for me and I adore you for it. You have no pride, no ego, just an endless desire to amuse me, and I just want to stuff you in my mouth and suck on you until your ears pop. You’re so giving—not that you have much to give, being the same volume as half a shot of vodka, but what little you have, you think of new ways to present to me in a continual stream of offerings. I almost wonder what you get out of it, killing yourself coming up with new ways to make me smile or feel good. Like, when’s your turn? I never set you on a table and make an ass of myself just to see you crack a grin. Is this really enough for you, getting to play on (and in) the body of a beautiful woman, with you doing all the work? I asked you about that once and you were so evasive with your answers, I never wanted to bring it up again. I do still wonder, though.
At the same time, it doesn’t really matter because you belong to me and I’ll do whatever the fuck I want to with you.
Right now I want you on my boobs. I rub myself a little more, and then I pick you up and stab myself with you some more, and I take all those juices and smear them over one of my breasts. I’m not huge, like men go looking for online, all those BBW models or that misogynist anime shit, but I think my boobies are cute. My exes liked them, most of them. They’re nicely shaped with cute nipples. Or maybe that’s just what we tell ourselves when we don’t grow up with those huge fucking mommy-milkers (or get them installed). I don’t know, but they’re huge to you and that’s all that matters. Some nights you stand on my sternum and my boobs spread slightly apart, and I can push them together and pretty much bury you in them. You like to ride on one, too. I roll slightly to the side so you can rest on my boob, and it lies there centered, and I masturbate and it sways and shudders beneath you, and you look so happy riding around on that. The way your tiny fingers dig into my nipple, actually making tiny little dents in the rubbery skin, that’s when I think you’re finally getting what you want. Your tiny grin shines at me like an LED bulb, and your tiny eyes roll back and go all dreamy, and then you reach down and start stroking yourself so violently I think you’re gonna tear it off, but you cling to my boob and stay on top until you’re done.
Now you’ve gotta do that but it’s lubricated. Your little hands try to dig in and claw my nipple, but it just keeps reforming and slipping out of your grasp. You keep grabbing but you just make it stand up more so there’s more for you to grab, technically, but you can’t hold onto it. And I see your knees digging into my skin as you try to crawl back atop my boob. It’s not huge, but it’s big enough for you, at least. You’re doing your best to stay on top, like, hauling yourself upon my nipple and spreading your arms and legs in all directions. That seems like it would be a good way to evenly distribute your weight, slight as it is, but you’ve made my nipple too proud and it looks like you’re balancing on a yoga ball. That cracks me up, and that creates another earthquake for you. Now you’re waving and flopping all over the place, and the juice isn’t helping you any, and you slide down into my cleavage again. Nice try, little fighter, but we’re done here. I go back for more fluid and let you have another go at my stomach, if you feel up for it. Whether or not you do, actually.
Eventually it’s too much for you. You’ve been struggling for too long and your boundless energy seems to have some boundaries after all. Your arms lack some grace as they slap at me, and your falls grow more calamitous. And then your legs skid to the side, and you take a bad bounce on the gentle slope of my belly, and you start sliding down one side. My juices are getting a little sticky, but for you it’s the difference between rushing over the edge and slowly creeping over the edge, but over the edge you go. My heart thrills to watch your minuscule hands slapping at my skin, your microscopic fingers digging into the smooth flesh of my belly, looking for anything to seize, but there’s not a handle, a scab, or even a zit to latch onto. I’m smooth and flawless, and your tiny body inevitably slides off the side and collapses to the bed.
And you know the rules. That’s not allowed to happen: when I place you on me, you have to do whatever it takes to stay on me, or you pay the price.
Slowly I curl up like I’m doing crunches, rising and rising (I love how huge I am next to you), until I sit up on the bed and all my piled weight makes a pit that your tiny, sticky body slowly rolls toward. I stand up, and the mattress springs back into position, and now you just lie there, exhausted and pasty. I pick up a T-shirt from the floor and mop off my own juices from my chest and stomach, toss it aside, and just stand there.
I look down at you, down the length of my long body, at the tiny human sprawled tragically upon my bed sheets. You look like you fell down a mountain, honestly, bedraggled and panting in front of my thighs. I even plant my fists upon my hips to really get a good glare going, to really loom above you.
You taught me to love looming. I think I can loom with the best of them, now.
I let a few moments pass as the teeny-tiny wheels turn in your itty-bitty skull and you piece together what’s about to happen next. You shake your head and blink (your eyes look like nothing more than periods in a sentence that flash on and off), and your expression goes through so many changes when you look up at me. Because I’m naked (yay!) but disapproving (boo!) but gigantic (yay!) but I look like I’ve got something planned (boo or yay, too soon to tell). I have to try to swallow my urge to burst out laughing, because you look so ridiculous when you’re scared, so small and pathetic. Part of me wants to scoop your wretched little doll’s body up in my palms and smother you with kisses until you lose that frown, but most of me wants to do what I’m going to do.
I look down the length of my nose at you and snort derisively. I hope you pick up on that.
My hips rotate first, turning slowly to the left. Counter-clockwise? And then my body follows: the skin around my waist wrinkles slightly, and my modest but pert boobs drift aside, and I glance at you one last time over my passing shoulder before I turn wholly away from you.
If I had to imagine what you’re looking at now, it would be: 1) the least dramatic aspect of my haircut, 2) the breadth of my slim shoulders and the slight peaks of my shoulder blades, 3) the subtly artistic curve of a shadow along my spine, running down my aforementioned flawless skin, 4) a pause where my pelvis flattens from my back, right before 5) the slight, shy swells of my butt cheeks, as modest and as pert as my boobs. Flawless skin, symmetrical in design; a real turn-on to geometrists everywhere.
My long arms (I can’t help thinking of everything on me as long and gangly when you’re around) draw from my hips and lace across my chest, pushing up my boobies where you can’t see them. All you see is a smooth back becoming smoother. You can see my shoulders shrug and roll forward, my little sign that something’s about to happen, but you already knew that. Same with how I tilt my head to each side, as though popping vertebrae before a fight. This isn’t going to be a fight, at least as far as I’m concerned. You’ll fight for your life, but you’re so fucking small that… Meh. Press Play on the tape and leave the room.
After a weighty pause I reach back and dig my nails into the soft, sweet flesh of my cute little butt. I can’t really call it an ass, it’s too small and cute. I think asses have more volume. They’re heavier, they swell like basketballs. My little butt’s like… two slim scoops of ice cream, I think. All the sweeter because there’s not much there, you know? I’ve never asked you if I think too much about these things because I suspect your answer would make me flatten you like a cherry tomato, and I just couldn’t live with myself if I hammered you into a lifeless paste. But I can’t help it, I like my body. If I didn’t have you around, I’d be studying myself in the mirror all the time, stroking myself, taking dramatic pictures for nobody’s titillation but my own. It’s like I’m an alien who was granted a human body: I’m fascinated with myself. My boobs aren’t huge and pendulous, but I think they’re awesome. My nostrils are slightly uneven and my smile’s a little crooked, but I think they make me look like I’m more interested in people than I really am, and people love that. And I may not have an ass, but what I have…
My nails bite into my buttocks, and I spread them until I can feel the strain on my asshole. I display myself to you, showing myself to you with a little violence. Like, get ready fucker, I’m comin’ atcha. I wish I could see your expression when I make my little hop, hover in the peak of the arc for less than a second, and the narrow seam of my slight butt descends from the heavens upon you. One second, there’s a slender giantess hanging in the air where she shouldn’t be; the next second, a big, hungry ass (there, I said it) is rushing for you, driven by its own insatiable need. I would give anything to see what you look like when that happens.
All I know is the moment of weighlessness throughout my body. My long feet leave the carpet, with no need to rest on anything anymore. My back curls just a little bit, getting ready for impact. Even my haircut goes weightless, lofting around my ears, lifting off my shoulders. No pressure in my spine, no pressure in my hips, even my cheeks on my face feel lighter. And then I come down.
The mattress groans with the unnecessary pressure. I’m not that heavy, but when I hop up like that I’ve got momentum on my side and I really drive my butt into the bed, like a piledriver. Whatever that is. I come down on you, butt-first, and I hope my aim was good. Mostly I hope; part of me doesn’t care. You get what you get, when you slide off my body and fall to the bed, that’s the rule. Like I said before, I can do whatever I want to to you, because you’re helpless and you belong to me, but it’s more fun with rules. (I said “funner” once and I can’t believe you actually talked me out of that, but you did. I warned you to not get cocky, but at the same time, I catch myself whenever I’m about to say it. How dare a little man have so much power?) The rule was you don’t fall off me or you get the butt, and here we are.
My aim was true. I can feel the hard little lump of your entire person in the mere crack of my butt. As small as my butt is, it has entirely swallowed all of you, without leaving so much as a stray finger behind. All of you fits in my ass! Isn’t that crazy? I think so, sometimes. I mean, I know how small my butt is. It’s so hard to find jeans that my butt looks good in, I’ve basically given up. I’ve got no hips at all, which means dresses look amazing on me, like I’m a goddamn model, but I wanna wear jeans! Is that so much to ask? And as small as my butt is, your pathetic little body fits in my butt entirely, completely. All-encompassingly. Sorry to go on and on about that, but it makes me laugh. Think about it: as small as my dainty li’l butt is, you can still disappear in it. That’s how small you are.
I bounce on the mattress a couple times. It’s a spring mattress, I’m not rich enough for one of those memory foam jobbers. I bounce and the springs complain and eventually we settle down, and then it’s just me sitting on the edge of the bed with an insistent little bulge in my butt. That’s you, you’re nothing but a little knot of mass between my sweet cheeks. How’s it feel? That, I’m not curious about. I want to know what it’s like to have a huge, beautiful pussy sucking on my whole body and clenching around me; I have negative-curiosity about what it’s like to be sandwiched in my narrow butt. That’s all yours, guy, and I will not intrude.
Then I just sit there. Not my total weight, because my legs are hanging off the bed, but most of my weight is piled atop you, and if my measly hand can hold you down, four-fifths of my total body weight must be impossible for you. Yet I can still feel you squirming under there. Not much but not nothing. Just slightly, like if I were sitting on someone’s finger and they were struggling to move it at all. That’s what you feel like, a weak finger, and once again we’re impressed with how fucking small you are. How can you still be alive? How can your heart be strong enough to move so little blood around so little a space? And with most of my body weighing down on your weak little rib cage and puny little lungs… I just don’t get it. How are you still alive? I mean, I’m not about to get up right now. You fell off my belly and so I have to sit on you; you didn’t exactly sign up for that—or anything—but them’s the rules.
Rules are rules.
My palms alight upon the edge of the mattress and I lean forward slightly. This isn’t to take any pressure off of you: I’m positioning myself for the next thing, where I squeeze you in my butt. My glutes tighten up and I raise slightly, and I dig slightly into the bed, and my hips angle slightly (or they seem to) and all that pressure goes to the nagging lump in my butt crack. That’s you. With as much time I’ve paid attention to my little body, watching how it bends and how the muscles work, now I’m trying to picture the muscles running up and down my butt to make them bulge and close in and pinch you. I become aware that I’m also clenching my bottom lip, pushing it up over my teeth in my concentration. If it looks ridiculous, there’s no one around here to know, because you’re sandwiched in my butt.
I’m just gonna keep saying that over and over. I’ve got a tiny, little man stuffed up my butt. Not in my butthole, like, not through my anal sphincter and stored in my rectum, though the night’s still young. Right now I have a weakly stirring little person straining under the overwhelming pressure of my slim not-an-ass. You’re in my butt, little guy. Are you enjoying yourself? You’d better, because this is a really cute butt. It could be someone else’s big, flobbery butt and they don’t wash well. You could be all tangled up in nasty hairs like a swimmer drowning in seaweed. But not here: you’ve got a nice butt that loves you, and I hope you love it back. I hold still for a moment, biting my lip, trying to detect your movement in there. I guess I don’t know exactly where you ended up in my crack. You could be up by the coccyx, you could be down under my taint. I’d like to think that your cock ended up somewhere around my butthole, and even if you can’t move your arms you could still thrust your hips and make an attempt to fuck me up the ass. It’s cute, this way, your little penis poking at the pink wrinkles around my butthole, and who knows, maybe you’d even make it inside. I clench my asshole at the thought, hoping it’s giving your cock a little hug, maybe tugging on it a little. That’s a nice thought: are you fucking my ass or is my ass fucking you? The idea makes me giggle, but I really laugh when I think of your face getting stuck in there, and my sweet little butthole’s puckering around your whole head, your face all mashed into the humid fissures as I clench around you. That would be a horrible time to be stuck in a dirty butt, but I’m nice and clean. Your whole world is my clean, sweet, slender butt, with a background of wrinkly linen bed sheets, I guess. Tiny man in my butt! How many other people can say that?
No, really, I really wanna know. I’d like to talk about this experience with someone else, sometime.
I play music in my head, something I can writhe to. Like chair-dancing but on the edge of the bed. My spine writhes rhythmically and I clench one glute and then the other, alternating to rock my entire body, driving one hip and then the other into the bed, swaying, grinding into you with my butt. I shimmy my shoulders and roll my elbows in little backward circles. My fists rotate just in front of my swaying boobs, which I think look good as I’m rocking out to the song in my head (no, I won’t tell you which one or you’ll think I’m a spaz), and I’m really getting into it, even to the point where I forget about you. It’s easy to get used to a little lump under my butt, right between the cheeks, because you’re gentle and pliant and you don’t rub into my asshole so much, so when I really get into the groove I can forget about you. It’s just naked ol’ me rockin’ out on the edge of my bed in my big, empty bedroom for no reason. Just enjoying the way my body moves, how my arms and my thighs look, how my titties bounce when I shake them, totally being into me and that’s all.
It’s not that I want to forget you. I’m not trying to. I don’t want to block you from my consciousness, I’m not trying to push you out of my thoughts. It’s just that you’re so fucking small, you’re so slight and there’s hardly anything there, that it’s really easy to forget about you. Like when I’m masturbating with you, when I rub you into my pussy, sometimes I forget you’re under my fingertips and I think it’s just me stroking me. I recognize there’s a risk of hurting you like that, but is it my fault you’re just a little whisper of a person? I didn’t make you, I didn’t shrink you down. It’s like being mad at me because a rock’s a rock. The fuck does that have to do with me? So if I’m sitting on you, and you hardly feel like anything, and as a matter of fact you’re not even moving anymore, and I’m super into the groove in my head, how is it my fault for forgetting you’re under me?
Except for the fact that I wouldn’t even have left work early and raced home like a demon and stripped down naked in my bedroom if it weren’t for you. I guess that’s something, but I’m not thinking about that as I enjoy the way my spine twists and how light my arms are and how was I born with such a great sense of rhythm? I kinda wish I had a mirror in front of me, like, one of those big old classical mirrors mounted on the back of a dresser or something. I have a mirror but it’s small and leaning on the wall next to my dresser, and if I lean over to look at myself in it I’m suddenly aware of the motionless tiny man in my butt.
So that’s how that goes.
It’s all I can do to keep from leaping up in a panic and apologizing to you. That would be ridiculous: gigantic, gorgeous me bending over backward to apologize to a mere scrap of a person? No way. As much as I love you, I can’t do that right now. Not when you’ve been deep in my butt like this. Instead, I pinch my butt and slowly rise to my feet, and I slowly turn around so you don’t fall out, and I press my knees against the edge of the mattress and look back to make sure my heels aren’t going to bang against anything, and then I fall forward like a mighty old-growth redwood, crashing to my bed. I like the dramatic effect of just toppling over, and it occurs to me how terrifying it would be for you if you were sitting on my head when I did this. One minute you’re on top of the world, the next you’re rapidly accelerating toward the earth. (Well, my bed.) But you’re not on my head, you’re in my butt, and you’re still there as my long body bounces on the mattress. The first one’s the good bounce, the second kinda goes askew, and I settle down soon after. I give my butt a clench and, yep, you’re still lodged in it. There was a chance you could’ve come out, and who knows what would’ve happened then? Maybe my hips would’ve come down on you; maybe you would’ve been flung across the room with a bad bounce. All sorts of things! But you’re still in my butt.
The bed sheets hiss as I draw my arms beneath my head. Going to rest here a while, let you figure things out, get over your disorientation. Catch your breath. I relax my butt, let it all go limp: ankles, knees, thighs. I breathe in, breathe out, release my abs, relax my shoulders, let my head settle how it will on my arms. Far from sleepy, I lie perfectly still and relaxed and try to bring all my attention to whatever’s happening in my butt.
Let’s see. You’re moving only slightly, probably adjusting an arm gone askew or flexing your legs. Maybe taking a moment to breathe deeply because I crushed your lungs for so long. I smirk, picturing two walls of my own flesh pressing in on you like some temple trap in an old adventure movie. Now, it’s just like you’ve fallen between the cushions on a couch or the spine of an open book, but softer. For a while you don’t move at all. I’m tempted to wiggle my hips and see if that gets a reaction from you, but I decide to be patient. I’ll wait to see what you do, now that your giantess is your own silent, patient landscape.
After a minute you stir. I can feel the lightest brush against one of my butt cheeks, right down in the valley, then more stirring. I think you’re trying to roll over and push yourself up. For the time being, I’m resisting glancing over my shoulder at you. I don’t know why: maybe I want you to think I’ve fallen asleep (though when have I ever konked out that fast?) and see what you’ll do when your owner isn’t responding to you. Maybe it’s exciting to lull you into a false sense of security, or maybe I just want to see how you chase your own desires and wants, when your giantess is spread out for you like a massive buffet. What will you go for first? What will you fill your plate up with?
You thump around clumsily for a moment. I guess you’re trying to manage this uneven terrain and you’re still recovering. But there you go, climbing up my right butt cheek. Do you like that better, or is any direction as good as any other? I feel like your hands and knees are padding across my skin, but you’re so insubstantial that it’s more like someone dragging something very light and flimsy over my butt. It itches, and I barely hold my arm back from reaching down there to scratch the area thoroughly. Pretty sure I’d tear your arms off if I did that, or worse. I bite my lip and hold my breath and let you stumble up the gentle hill of skin. You reach the peak quickly—it’s hard to tell where you are without looking at you, because it feels like you’re moving much farther than you really are, until you do something else and I realize what’s what. But you’re resting again so I assume (the ASS under U belongs to ME) that you’re on top of my cheek and catching a breather. Taking in the lay of the land.
What’s that look like to you? To the south, two long tubes of girl-flesh reach into the distance, running off the edge of the bed over a yawning chasm. To the north, my pelvis slopes down to my spine, gently rising to my shoulders in the smoothest, subtlest of curves, crowned by the cutest haircut you’ve ever seen. (Seriously, my stylist does such a great job, every time.) Pillows beyond that, but that’s not interesting. All the action is right under your feet and pressed beneath my enormous chest against a wide and spreading bed. I think my bed would make a good-sized island for you to play around on. So what would that make me, a mountain range?
The slight tickle creeps up my pelvis. I can picture you carefully picking your way downhill, controlling your descent down the side of a mountain. I can’t quite discern your left foot from your right, but I feel the steady tap-tap-tap as you catch your weight with each step, before it levels out into the basin of my lower back. Basin… I wonder how much water it would hold? Enough for you to bathe in, probably. We’ll have to try that sometime. I’ll set up a camera so I can see you being tiny and naked and ridiculous, washing yourself in the hollow of my back. That would be cute as hell, I bet.
You don’t move for a while. No more tap-tap-tapping around my back. What are you thinking right now? It’s a good sprint up my back, but what would you do once you’re up here by my head? What is it you want? Oh, man, if you wanted to play around my boobs some more, sorry, dude. They are inaccessible for the moment. But then I feel you moving again, like a trickle of water running down my back and into the crack of my ass.
What? Really? You just got free and you’re going back there again? Is that what you crave when you think your mistress isn’t looking? I roll my eyes as hard to the side as I can but I can’t even peer at you in my peripheral vision. I can only feel something like a teasing fingertip tracing its way over my pelvis and into the top of my crack and gently onward into the valley once more. What the hell. And when you stop, it’s right in front of… well, I can’t be sure, but if I had to guess, you straddled your way down my cheeks and planted yourself next to my butthole. Is that right? I can hardly imagine what you’re going to do next. I mean, I have some good guesses, but I guess I didn’t know you were that much of a butt-guy. Mostly our time is spent with me placing you places and making you do things. This is some interesting information you’re handing over to me right now.
Holy shit, you’re doing something ticklish right now. Are you actually tickling my asshole, or are you getting ready to do something else? Whatever it is, it’s driving me crazy and it’s so fucking hard trying to stay still! I can’t help clenching, I was surprised when you started touching me there. But you keep doing it so I can get used to it, and now I’m relaxed again and I can feel you circling my asshole, and I’d really love to know what’s up.
The tickling gets wider, running down my crack. I think you’re kneeling above my asshole, but you’re doing something down below it, too. Maybe those are your hands? So, like, you’re getting into a push-up position… oh, duh. You came back to fuck my butt, didn’t you? That’s adorable! Really wish I could help you out with that right now but I’m busy pretending to be passed out. I won’t even think about what it means, that you went straight to fucking my asshole when you thought I was unconscious. I’m letting you do whatever you want right now, I know you have my permission, but you don’t so we might need to talk about this later.
You’re laying yourself down very securely along the crack of my ass, fitting in perfectly. Is there enough room for you to move, you know, do what you wanna do? I guess we’ll find out. Your hands are reaching over my taint, and I guess I’m surprised at how long you really are when you stretch out. But when your tiny nails pick at my taint, that makes me wanna do something… like piss or shit or something. Didn’t know I had that reflex. You better be careful down there, little guy, you don’t want to summon a storm. But what the hell are you doing? Are you looking for something to hold onto? I don’t know what would be there, except…
Wow. You can reach… I think your hands are gripping the bottom of my slit! Are you that long? Maybe the distances aren’t so great. I should check myself out with a mirror. Yeah, I can feel your little hands straining around the beginning of my pussy’s entrance. Hope it’s not too slippery for you! I refrain from rubbing my thighs together, to try to estimate how wet I am down there, but I guess it’s been a while since I was fucking myself with you so everything’s pretty much drying up. You really can get a good handhold, and your body’s in position, so I wonder what this will feel like.
Not much, is the answer. You’re kinda wiggling down there, I can tell that much, but again, it’s just like a weak finger squirming slightly in my crack. I don’t even know if your little peen’s actually in my butthole, I genuinely can’t tell, and that’s not to be insulting or anything. I’m not that sensitive down there, I can’t feel your cock in your fist, trying to navigate through the wrinkles and push into that big, sticky sphincter. I guess I wouldn’t feel anything, so I hope you’re enjoying yourself. I’m just going to lie here and let you go at it for a while, I guess. That’s a favor, right? Not reaching back and swatting you away or picking you up and putting you somewhere interesting? Just letting you play around on me however you will? That’s a favor, sure.
I don’t even know if that’s your dick in my asshole, even. Maybe you turned yourself around and your feet are tickling my pussy and you’re shoving your face deep into my butthole. I’d think I’d feel that, like a fingertip pressing into my hole, but I don’t know. You don’t weigh anything and you’ve got the strength of a wet noodle, no offense. If I really just lay perfectly still and relaxed here, would you seriously have the strength to shove your head into my asshole? Like, if that’s what you’re trying to do, do you have enough strength to push through my pretty pink sphincter and insert yourself? I wonder! I keep saying “we need to try that sometime” but I’m not sure about this one. I guess if you were really good for a long time, I’d let you climb inside my ass. I’d have to help you. It sounds weird and gross to me, but I love you that much, so what harm could it be if you wanted to crawl inside me there?
Unless you died in there. That would freak me the hell out. Maybe I won’t play around with this idea.
But maybe I will take a little nap. You’re enjoying yourself, I imagine, but you’re also taking a long time to get on with this. If that’s your fantasy, fine, I don’t want to rush it, but maybe I shouldn’t be pretending to be asleep. You can fuck the butt of your wide-awake giantess as long as she’s reading a book or watching a movie on her phone, how about. But now I have to lie here and pretend to be asleep, and sleeping is the one activity you have to pretend to do in order to actually do it, and it feels really good to relax right now. I just changed the sheets. I love a clean bed. And work was so difficult, I really would’ve taken any excuse to leave early, but now I’ve got my little man and he’s going to town in my butt, and I can’t feel a thing…
Did I fall asleep? I drooled a little on my arm. How long was I out?
Little dude’s still pumping away at my butthole. Couldn’t be that long. Or he’s been fucking me for an hour and I can’t tell. That sounds kinda pathetic.
All right, lover-guy, time’s up. Whatever you were doing down there, I hope you did it and went back for seconds, because it’s me-time again. Carefully I brush my fingertips over my butt, finding you immediately. My own middle fingertip runs over your tiny, naked butt, and that makes me smile. You’ve got the cutest little butt. If you were my size, I’d take a big bite out of it, it’s so nicely shaped. I dig one finger under your belly and pry you away and, holding you aloft, I slowly roll to my back. I’m showing myself off to you: say bye-bye to my butt and hello to my sweet, flat belly and the tender valley where my puss hides out. Oh, but you’re not going there, not now. I send you flying over the landscape of your goddess, past the navel, over the boobs, and have you hanging over my smiling face, forgetting that it might be puffy from sleep. Well, do I really need to impress you? If my immense size doesn’t make an impression, I really don’t think a little bedhead’s going to make a difference.
I admire you, holding you over my face. I take my time turning you back and forth, watching how your little limbs flop and swing around, however I move you. I can’t really read your face, if you’re mad or satisfied or what. The detail’s lost at that distance, and any closer and you get all blurred. I’d need a magnifying glass, or to take a picture of you and enlarge it, if you’d behave for a picture. You’re resting on the pad of my thumb, your whole body, and you’re letting your arms and legs hang freely around it. Such a cute little morsel… Without taking my eyes off you, I lick my other thumb and bring it up to rub on your cock. It was just in my asshole, so I’ve got to wipe it down. I’m not one of those ass-to-mouth girls, that’s fucking disgusting. I don’t know why anyone would consent to that.
Once you’re all clean—and I can’t even feel your cock and balls rolling around under my thumb, hope I didn’t hurt you too bad—I set you down between my boobs, and I hold your body down with two fingers while I scoot back into the pillows. I want to bring my head up slightly for this. I want to see you right before you become blurry, standing there between my boobs. You do stand, when I release you, and your whole face is turned up to my right eye, and your whole head turns when I bring up my hand and crook my finger and beckon you up to my face. I don’t have to be more specific than that, you know what it means.
You get blurry about the time you step into the hollow between my collarbones, and you sink below my chin, so I close my eyes and open my mouth, waiting.
I guess all I can do is relax. I leave everything up to you, curious to see what you’ll do and unwilling to interrupt. It’s hard to push down my excitement, though! All I want to do is grab you and stuff you in places, but good things come to those who wait, they say, right? Very well, I’m going to be your landscape. I’m all open for you to wander around and explore, I’ll be as motionless as the dunes. Yes, I know what that means.
In fact, I’m going to make a game of it. I’m going to see how long I can lie still, with my arms as heavy as lead and my legs filled with cement, and I’m going to lie here and detach from my entire body and let you do whatever you need to. Here I go. One more deep breath, forgive me that, and now I’m deflating and all I am is a big deflated husk of a giant body for you. That’s all, completely harmless, inert and enervated. I can’t move an inch, gravity is too strong, I have no energy left, I’m just going to lie here and let this maddening ticklishness play itself out on my throat. What the fuck are you dong, anyway…
Oh, no, that’s part of the game! I’m going to lie here and figure out what you’re doing. You only weigh about half an ounce, and you’re as tall as a dollar bill (tall, not wide), and I’m your great big erotic continent to play around on. What are you doing right now? What are you doing…
I think you’re north of my collarbones. I feel the slightest little touches on my throat. Would it be funny to pump my larynx under your tiny feet? Would you fall? Would you tumble down my neck and get buried in my warm, sweet hair? I’d love to find out, but I promised myself and, tacitly, you: I’m not going to move. I’m not going to help you, and I’m not going to hinder you. It’s all you, baby.
But I have to tell you, it’s tantalizing in the most extreme sense. I had no idea it could be this bad! All I want to do is grab you and shove you somewhere satisfying, and then scratch the fuck out of my skin where your dainty feather-touches irritate me. I can’t believe you’re so light and insubstantial. Feeling you stumble around is insane! I hope you’re impressed with how still I’m holding, because I’m ready to grind you to a pulp with my molars right about now.
You’re fucking with my chin. What’s up with that? I felt you walk up from the dainty hollow between my collarbones and I tracked your light-footed progress up my throat, and now you’re… scraping or wiping my chin for some reason. You’re making me blush: Is there barbecue sauce there? Did I forget some ranch dressing or something? I don’t need you to clean up whatever schmutz is on my cheeks, baby, just get to your bidness…
Oh. Now I get it: you can’t reach my mouth! You’re so fucking small and meager that you’re trying to climb my chin! And it’s softly rounded, there’s nothing for you to grab onto. Oh, you weak little fuck! You better figure this out, because your incessant jumping and clawing at my chin is driving me nuts. I’m going to swat you like a mosquito and then get myself off without you. That’s what you’re doing to me.
You’ve fallen still, and now there’s a weight on my chin… You must’ve done it. Congratulations, you antagonizing little fuck! You reached my chin. Was it a great accomplishment? Should I make you a medal? Is this going on your resume? Maybe it’s enough of an achievement in itself that you don’t need external validation; pardon me if I don’t applaud. Now get the fuck up to wherever you’re going.
It feels like you’ve grappled onto my lower lip. Very well, I’ll hold my entire face still and let you grope and clutch and climb your way onto that. I really want to laugh, not necessarily at you but definitely because of you. What you must look like, ineffectual hands grasping at my fat bottom lip, feeble fingertips digging into the fat and gettin gpushed out again because you’re too weak! Hilarious to me, but maybe it’s frustrating for you. Don’t give up, my desperate, horny little hero. Please keep it up, do your best, and maybe I’ll help you out when I care to. I mean, that’d be breaking all sorts of rules, but wahtever. Who’s keeing track? It’s the honor system betwen you and me, and your honor is less than an ounce.
Still. Feeling your little hands like rat’s paws clawing at my lip is al ittle… shriek-inducing. I’m trying to hold you in my mind, but I keep seeing this fat, gray rodent scrabbling at my mouth, because that’s exactly what you feel like, without the heft of his meaty littlle body, and my fingers are twitching with anxiety. Now I want to grab you and throw you across the room! Will you fcking get on with it already/ What are you trying to do? Wher are you going?
There you go. There you go, now you’re making progress. What are you doing/ I’m clenching my eyes, straining against the impulse to try to look at you, but right now you’d be a fuzzy little blur on my chin and I’d probably swat you away like the annoyance you are. But no, my arms are so heavy, the gravity is so strong, I just have no energy left, all I can do is lie here and wait for you to get on with whatever the fuck you think you’re trying to achieve…
Whoa. You just threw your little arms on my tongue! Deathwish much? What kind of organism has the instinct to grab onto the … you know what, fuck it. I’ll help you out here. The only muscle I can feel moving in my entire body is the slab of meat I push out of my mouth. My tongue shoves out to greet you, welcome you, present itself as the anchor you need. If that’s cheating, it’s the most pathetic form of cheating. The judges will allow it: the tiny, wretched little flake of a person can grab onto my tongue to pull them selves up.
There are you knees, pressing into my chin with just a shade of noticeable weight… and what’s that… you… Holy crap, you’re spreading your knees and getting ready to fuck my chin! Is that it? I can feel your hot inner thighs wrapped around my chin, and I’m guessing that burning little tickle is your junk! Have at it, little dudely, if that’s what gets you off. I don’t mind, sincerely, I don’t! If you can get your cookie by grinding into my chin, spurt with impunity. Oh, now I have to fight against laughing, but I’m delighted with the thought of a tiniest little spurt of your jism somewhere below my fat bottom lip. Lost in those little translucent hairs, drying as immediately as it hits my hot skin. Wow. Wow! Just think of that: your moisture is so insignificant that I could burn it off without even doing anything. It’s not like I can slow my heart down and bring my temperature down. Your little spurt is immediately history. Ha! That’s how powerful I am compared to you, li’l shrimp; that’s how mighty I am, just by lying here, forcing myself to remain still while you expend all your energy trying to scale my jaw.
Holy fuck, that’s hot. Goddamn it, I want to shove up you up my pussy as deep as you’ll go and just chew on you down there, mash you into fucking cat food.
Are you going to fuck me? Are you? Do it, I dare you. Fuck my chin, fuck my lower lip, fuck, that unnamed indentation between them you little perv. Go for it, your goddess offers herself up to you. See how heavy my arms are? I can’t even turn my head and shake you off. Fuck my lower lip, you miserable little champion. Fuck the eastern European whiskers that may appear there, but if you tell me about them, I swear to Goddess I will absolutely muddle you in an ashtray and dump you in the goddamn garbage disposal and toss you out with a baggie of dog shit. Think on that hard and long.
Unlike your peen.
Sorry, sorry! I had to.
There you go. Find your way around, little man. I’m waiting for you. You can see how patiently I’m waiting for you, unless you’re so fixated on your own tiny little orgasm that you don’t even notice what a good giantess I’m being. What a shame, so much wasted on you in the pursuit of your own minuscule little penis hitting climax. I’m being so good, so disciplined and patient, so generous for one such as you, and you don’t even notice. Do you notice? I wish I could ask, but your arms have flopped down upon my tongue and if they go much farther I’m going to vomit on you. Seriously. I have a super-sensitive gag reflex, and if you explore it much longer I’m going to projectile-vomit you into the next room. See if I don’t. That’s right, little man, keep pushing my boundaries, see how far you can go. See where it gets you, little fucker.
That’s not so bad… what are you doing/ I can feel your little hands.. my taste buds are so much more sensitive than my chin. The heat of your crotch burns into my chin, but I can feel your hands swiping over my tongue… you’re exploring ng me. It feel s like you’re just getting to know me, see what I’m about. Maybe you’re even savoring the experience? A big giantess, lying silent and inert for you to explore… why not? I’m just trying not to laugh or cough as your little nails dig over my tongue. I hope I brushed enough, not everyone brushes their tongue, and I wasn’t anticipating a tiny little inspector crawling into my mouth like this. Shit. ON the other hand, I’m the giantess and I can snap you in half without even thinking about it, so why would I care how I appear to you? You’ll take what you get and you’ll be grateful for it, you little speck!
Somehow it’s soothing to feel you there, on my lower jaw, my chin, pouring into my mouth. I know exactly where you are, where your knees dig into my chin, feeling your little chest press against the tip of my tongue and my lower lip. I created this entrance for you, where usually a big thick cock would go. You’re not half the size or mass of something like that, but I’m letting you in anyway. Do you feel honored? You have at least as much respect as someone else’s penis. There you go.
Please don’t tell me you’re trying to fuck my lower lip. Everything else on you is holding still, except the way your knees clench and the way your hands slide over my tongue, and all that suggests the frenetic jerking of your hips means you’ve slipped your tiny little peen between the tip of my tongue and my fat bottom lip, and you think that’s going to get you off. Have you thought about what it would mean if I simply sucked my tongue back in? You might come along with it. And I might lock my lips around your stupid little body. And I might suck so hard on your upper body that your eyeballs explode. Have you thought of that? The way you’re thrusting into my lip, I’m guessing you haven’t though about anything like this. Well, experience in the best teacher, so…
No. I wouldn’t do that to you. I’m not going to hurt you, I don’t want to kill you. I want to fuck myself silly with your pathetic, inadequate little body, and in moments like these—where you’re humping my lower lip—I start to wonder why I’m putting up with this ridiculous bullshit.
Except for the fact that I want you so badly. I want you, you little crumb of sexiness, you little morsel of desirability. Holy shit, do I want you so fucking bad. You have no concept of how much strength it takes to hold my arms down, to keep my greedy hands from flying up to grab you, squeeze you once for good measure, and then stuff you or rub you or grind you wherever I fucking want you. Which, right now, is just about everywhere. I want to feel your hot little body everywhere from the sensitive, cushioned soles of my feet to my itchy, tense scalp, wrapped up and struggling in my hair. And everywhere in between. It’s driving me mad! Holy fuck, I want you so goddamn bad, and you’re just grinding against my bottom lip as though everything you lack in imagination is more than made up for in determination.
The way your little palms slide over my tongue… Sometimes it feels like you’re slipping. You always recover, you never just fold in half and dump into my mouth, like I’m begging you would. I feel the gentle press where one arm snaps up and braces on my upper lip, and you pull yourself up and get stable and start humping my lip again. After the third time this happens, I think you won’t notice if I just slip my hand over my belly, kinky hairs scraping under my fingers, until my middle finger descends to greet my ungodly fucking wetness. You stupid little stooge, you have no idea what you’re missing. My finger catches fire and tingles spread up my arms and down my thighs, and my other hand clenches with needing to squeeze you, just like my pussy does. You dull, simple little fuck, humping my lip, completely unaware of what amazing delights are waiting for your attention.
I scrunch up my face with longing. I can’t take it anymore, I have to move something. My cheekbones swell up and my eyelids squinch up like a cat’s, and my jaw pushes out and lowers and opens, and I have to gasp, and even my merest breath is interrupted by your stupid, insensible body toppling into my mouth. Beyond thought, my throat clenches to catch you, and the fat, nubbly back third of my tongue mashes you against the roof of my mouth. Now I’ve got you.
Now I’ve got you. At last.
With tremendous discipline I dig my nails into my own hips with one hand; with the other, I introduce another finger and hook inside me, massaging myself exactly the way my tongue mashes into you: graceless, desperate, and supremely confident of ownership. You’re in my mouth now, you annoying little fucker, there’s no hope for you at all. I hope I’m instilling a sense of panic in you as I cinch my lips around your little waist and lock you into place. I pucker and open my jaws and suck in my cheeks, to create a mild vacuum chamber that at the very least should suck all the air out of your lungs, and there’s not a thing you can do about it. It’s like you’re in an iron lung: you inhale when I let you, and when I suck, you exhale helplessly. The thought of this cracks me up! So much control over so vital a bodily function, and you’re completely helpless! I suck on your body and inhale through my nose, and in a gesture of largesse I permit you to breathe my air. I relax my cheeks, indeed, I puff them out and jam the used air from my lungs into my mouth, applying a pressure upon your upper body like you’ve likely never experienced before, unless you have a SCUBA license. You know what I mean? You do now. So many references and allusions are being lost on you because you were fucking my lip or whatever. You have no idea what’s going on in my head, all the amazing jokes and one-liners and ideas, because you just want to grind one out on my fat bottom lip.
And yes, I realize what this means, coming from someone who just wants to gnaw on you with my reproductive canal and knead my boobs like bread dough and clamp my thighs like a vice while I cum repeatedly around your tiny corpse, and even I know how that sounds, it’s pretty bad, but it’s fucking honest, and I’m alone inside my head where there are no boundaries or limitations. But I’m bigger than you, so shut up—is what I would say if I were treating you like an equal partner in this conversation, rather than sucking and blowing on your entire body for my passing amusement, fully exploiting the fact you can’t do shit about it.
I don’t like calling people bitches, but you really are a bitch right now, and all you can do is take it. Literally, on multiple levels. You have no defense.
When I’ve fucked with you enough, even by my estimation, I press the tip of my tongue into your soft belly. There’s a doughy, pliant gap between your pelvis and the low rim of your rib cage, and my tongue just fits there. I hope I’m not mashing your guts too badly, but I need to pin you to the roof of my mouth for a moment.
You struggle. I expect this; I don’t blame you. You’re struggling in place, but you’re not changing a damn thing. And when you’re done struggling, I feel your spindly little arms fall limp over my tongue, and then I know it’s safe to start moving you, because even you realize that fighting against my mere tongue is useless. You get it, and when you really and truly get it, then I can slowly spin you in my mouth. The tip of my tongue nudges your thigh, then scoops back to nudge your armpit and swivel your back over the roof of my mouth, then back down to your legs to scoop them inside. When both your legs are inside my lips, then I have the leisure of shoving your body back out of my mouth, and then I lock my lips around your waist once more. That’s the easiest place to hold you, of course, where you’re softest and thinnest. I mean, you’re even thinner around your neck, but then I run the risk of snapping your thin little neck and ending this game prematurely. Not so with the waist. You have more muscles and tissues and junk around that. I’m not likely to break you at the waist unless I gently pinch my incisors together, snapping the sole conduit through which your brain speaks to your legs. That would pretty much end you, and it would take me so little effort to do. Do you ever think of that, when you’re fucking around with piddly bullshit? I bet not. I imagine you’re only focused on satiating your dick’s fleeting whim and are actively not-thinking about what your gigantic erotic landscape could do to you in half a second.
It’s all about you at these times, when it should be all about me. Is that a lesson you can learn before you die? I wonder.
Now you’re sticking out of my mouth, and I imagine you look awkward and stupid, except my eyes can’t cross and focus on you so close to them like that. It’s easier for me to sigh and blow my used air on your back, dig my skull into the pillows, and close my eyes and visualize where my tongue’s touching you, what it’s touching. There’s the doughy area of your stomach and intestines. I could probably make you puke by pressing too hard there, or else I’d make you shit. And if you shit in my mouth, I would end your life even faster than you could feel embarrassed. Or triumphant. I guess I don’t really know what kind of person you are.
The tip of my tongue wedges between your scrawny thighs and gives your hips a nudge: does it hurt your fragile little balls when the muscles in my tongue tense up and shove you? I can feel your dick and balls shifting out of the way, weak, tender, pliant. I’m positioning you so your doughy middle is hugged by the tight pucker of my lips. That leaves your pelvis inside my mouth, your butt brushing against my upper teeth, and who knows what you think you’re doing with your legs. They’re everywhere, kicking, swimming, shifting around. Here, I’ll help you: I tense up my thick tongue between your thighs and force them apart. Everything in my mouth is so hot, all my blood is churning and pumping, harder and worse as I masturbate a quarter-mile south of you. Your legs are squashed in a balmy bath between my pulsing tongue and the rocky shores of my unyielding teeth. That should give you some pause, feeling your ankles and heels brushing against the jutting ridges of my skeleton inside my mouth. If you ever thought you could wrestle my tongue into compliance or wedge my soft lips apart to permit your escape, even you have to realize my teeth forgive nothing and don’t ask permission to do things to soft, fragile little bodies like yours.
Now I pause, lying still, holding off on touching myself. I want to see if your feet brushing over my teeth does anything to calm you the fuck down.
This could be so nice, if only you’d stop being willful. You have no influence here, you have no self-control. What will it take to get you to give up these annoying little delusions?
Here, let me show you. I’m just going to touch myself very gently and slowly while I help you figure it out. There’s your fiddly little cock, spinning around the tip of my tongue. It wants to be hard, it’s going to be, but it’s not yet. Soon, the way I’m playing with it. You have to wait this out with me, because there’s not a thing you can do. I can feel your tiny fingers trying to pry between my lips, but all you can do is gently pinch and shift all that soft flesh. You can’t move a thing, and you can’t even wedge a hand inside, much less your arm. Because you’d like to jack off right now, wouldn’t you? Too bad. You’ll come when I make you.
There’s not so much disappointment as I let my body cool down. Maybe that’s ’cause I’m in the driver’s seat again, rather than surrendering control to something so small and unworthy. Not that that sounds very impressive: now that I’m in control of this squirming little worm of a person, I’m calm and confident again? We’ll make sure that doesn’t leave this room. I like the sensation of my pulse slowing down gradually from its frenetic gallop of a few minutes ago to the slow, steady hammer. I’m still plenty wet for my fingertips, but now it’s helping me along with tending to myself, rather than gooshing and flooding down my thighs. This is fine, this is more like it. I rest my free hand on my belly, and I could almost meditate like this, diddling myself, feeling my pulse in my belly, breathing more thoughtfully, and flicking the blunt head of my tongue around your little penis.
It’s cute at that size. I know my words can be insulting or condescending, but you’re a perfectly proportioned tiny little man. I can tell that if you were a little larger than me, you’d be a very handsome man. You might not think so. Likely all you can see are your flaws and the things that need to be worked on, but not me. You’re still fresh and exciting to me, so I see all the things I like. Like this meaty thigh I’m tasting now. I can tell that those thighs would feel powerful and secure around my waist or my head. I could hug one of those thighs as hard as I wanted and I couldn’t hurt you. But then, there are tons of guys my height or larger; there are very few tiny little men, and only one in my possession. So I’ll only admire your powerful thighs in my mouth, those tough, cannonball calves of yours, these lovely strings of muscle that mash against the roof of my mouth or clench around my tongue like you’re riding a horse. Maybe we should’ve started slower, like I should’ve set you on the table (or a little saucer) and taken some time to study all the finely sculpted little parts of you. But no, my need is too great and I have no patience for study right now. Maybe after I come, if I’m still awake and if you’re still around.
There we go. I bunch my tongue up and run a long strip of tastebuds over your cock, and I can feel it start to poke. I do it again, and the telltale little whimper you emit under my nose informs me you’re ready to burst. Well, not yet, you little fuck. I’m just going to nudge my tongue between your pert little butt cheeks, as if I were going to split you open that way. Do you like that, this big, hot tongue trying to rim you? Does it scare you a little? I don’t think I could split you open, but does it feel like that? Does the tender crack of your butt strain when I shove your cheeks aside with my unrelenting tongue? I’m not even sure that I care, right now. I’m in my mind’s eye right now, picturing what it must look like to see your little body glistening and foamy with my spit, what it looks like when your pockets of fat and flesh and meat bend and spread in ways they weren’t meant to go, much more than a deep-tissue massage. I’m shaping you like clay in my mouth, kneading and rolling you with a tongue you can’t defend yourself again. Yes, I feel how your legs kick sometimes, trying to bat me away, but your heels slip and shoot around the sides or your foot just sinks into so much tender muscle and I just keep coming. And then something changes and you want more, and your grabby little legs try to wrap around my tongue, but I can shove one leg or the other aside, or simply retract and slither somewhere else.
There is absolutely nothing you can do right now except receive my every last whim.
I’m sucking on your legs now, creating that little vacuum chamber. I can feel your fragile little ribs sinking into my kiss; your teeny-tiny arms are flapping around my lips uselessly, a gesture that would evoke pity if it didn’t look so comical. But don’t worry, I’m not going to swallow you: here, my tongue is gently shoving you back out of my mouth. Feel that? The cold air around your waist as my saliva cools? Your little body isn’t enough to heat it back up, you’re just going to lose heat rapidly until I…
There, isn’t that better? Sucking you back in must feel like slipping into a warm bath from a cold room. Yes, that’s nice. Enjoy it for a moment until I shove you back out. Ha, yeah, I bet you don’t like that. Your little legs are paddling in a frenzy, trying to find some way to pull yourself back in, but no, you don’t stay in where I don’t want you. Here, enjoy a little gust of air from my nostrils, that should cool you down a bit.
And in you go again. I love how your body relaxes and melts inside my mouth like that. You see, you really do love me. It’s ridiculous you needed any convincing at all. You can’t hide anything from me, you should know that by now.
A little more saliva’s filling up your private chamber, and you’re almost swimming in it. The lower half of you, anyway. Swishing you around in a warm bath, shoving your legs away, massaging your cock like a hard little stem, rubbing, rubbing, until… There you go. Good boy. Your body seizes up between my lips and then goes absolutely limp. So remarkable! I can feel your little frame shudder. Wasn’t that better than humping my lip like a Golden Retriever on a throw pillow? I can even almost taste you for a second, I think, and then it’s immediately washed away by my spit. Well, down the hatch.
Not with you! Oh, no, never you. You, I pinch between one sticky fingertip and the pad of one sticky thumb (I could’ve used my other hand, but why?), and I hold you fast. You must be exhausted because you lie like a noodle in my grip, and you don’t even squeal or fight as I suck you off. I extract you slowly, lazily, kissing you as I suck most of my moisture off your dear little body. All this kissing and sucking probably tells you how reluctantly I’m pulling you out of my mouth, and that’s true. I could happily pop you inside, entirely, and just swirl you around with my tongue while I watch a movie. Wouldn’t that be nice? Of course it would, don’t answer. But I’m tugging you out like a long string, and the cold air hits your cock, and my tongue laps at your legs as they recede from my chamber, until finally your feet pop out of my kiss and there you are, boneless and wet, dangling from my fingertips.
My bodyscape sails below you as I bring my hand back down between my thighs. There’s only one place left for you after all this, because I still gotta get my cookie. Another one? I forget. I’m completely obsessed with you and having you the way I want you.
It must confuse you when you go drifting past my pussy, into the valley of my thighs, with nothing but bed sheets below you. You thought you knew everything, right? I’m not so predictable. What I need is to feel you at my feet while I flick the bean, Mr. Know-It-All. It’s not a long drop to the mattress. You bounce once, and my thighs rise up, my knees peak in twin arches, and my heels dig in to scoot my massive body back. All the better to play with you now. I rest my head among the pillows, and my hand returns to massage my pussy.
I slide one foot over, and there’s your hot little body against the arch. I turn my other foot and pick at you with my toes. Either you’re really hot or my feet are really cold, because you feel like you’re searing. But like a good boy, you’re just lying there and taking it. If you finally realized you’re no match for my tongue, I’m glad you don’t believe you have better odds with my feet. Just lie there and enjoy it, little hottie.
My toes are much clumsier than my tongue, of course. My big toe digs under your pliant little body, and my second toe grips your waist too hard, but in this way I can seize you and lift you far above the bed. You’re turned the wrong way to admire me, but you must still have a pretty impressive view. My leg feels wonderful, stretching straight up like that, my own slight calf knotting subtly, my toes pointed to the ceiling. You hang in them like a wet rag, and that’s good. If you fought too hard, who knows what would happen to you? You could fall out, and you might hit the bed, or maybe you’d plummet to the floor, and then I’d have to go looking for you with these big, clumsy, heavy feet. So stay smart and give in and give up, just like that.
I fold my leg up again and let you tumble from my grip, settling my feet around you once more. The skin is so soft and smooth here, did you notice? You must notice, as I arch my feet around you, forming a crude shelter around your little body. Walls of rumpled, tender skin bunching around you, what’s that look like? Is it fascinating? Is it gross? I let my knees fall to the sides, and the wrinkled walls become smooth and wide, and very gently I press them around you. Basically I’m just resting the soles of my feet against each other, you’re nothing more than a little lump that got in the way.
I can feel you moving a little. Not frenzied motions, not futile combat, but I can feel you stirring between my soles. I’ll assume you’re just getting comfortable, straightening out any oddly bent joints, because you move like you don’t wish to bother me, and you’re settling down again now. Nice.
That gets a little pat from my feet: pat, pat, pat. Did you like that? I like feeling this little morsel between my feet. Let me give you a little squish. I feel okay with that because I think I’ve got nicely soft feet, you know? Padded, fleshy, whatever you wanna call it. I don’t think I could crush you between them if I tried, just like if I clamped you between my thighs. You couldn’t go anywhere, but you wouldn’t break a bone or even lose circulation. Just sweet, soft, smooth womanly soles pressing around you. You can tell yourself it’s with love, too, that’s not far off the mark. It’s more like… Well. I can feel this hot, solid little lump between my sensitive feet, and that’s stimulating in its own way, yes, it is. It sends a little thrill up my legs, and that combines with my agitating fingers in my puss, and you can’t go anywhere and you know it and I know it, so I can just rub myself like this, slip a couple fingers inside, squeeze my knuckles as they shove in and out, tense up my thighs and push my feet together a little harder, and you just lie there and take it.
Mmm, that’s so nice. Such an obedient little lump of a man. I have to slide one foot down, rub you into my sole with the ball of my foot, because I need a little more force. I need to know I’m doing something to you, as I get closer to my goal. The ball of my foot is a little more callused, but not bad. I do take care of my feet, like scrubbing them with pumice to get the harder skin off. I haven’t in a while, so, sorry, but I just need to grind your little body into my arch like that. I can’t even tell if you don’t like it because you’re being such a good little man, yes you are, just taking it and putting up with this big, sweet foot coming at you. So smart, so obedient.
I can’t tell if you’re complaining, now that my darling little toesies are plucking at your head. I can just feel the little knob of your skull between my second, third, fourth toes as I pinch and pinch at you. Did I catch your arm? You shouldn’t have raised your arms! Look at you now, you’ve fallen to the bed. Think about that for a moment, lying next to that wall of lonely, lovely sweet sole. Oh, my foot wanted you so badly, but you had to be so stupid and mess around and get yourself plucked up in my toes. I just wanted to feel you, you know? I wanted to feel your warm, breakable little body between my toes. You know they’re not very dexterous, you should’ve just let them do whatever they were going to do. Now you’re lying on my bed, next to my one sad foot, and you know what has to happen next.
My other foot, the curious one, the vengeful one, it hovers over you for a moment while you think. I hope my toes are wriggling furiously. I can’t really tell because I can’t be bothered to raise my head. I just feel the tendons pull across my foot and up my shin, and I hope that translates to something menacing, but if not, oh well. Down comes my foot on… oh, I missed. You’d better not be running away! Stomp! Down it comes again… ah, I gotcha! Now you’re covered in one vengeful foot’s sole, pressing you harder and harder into the bed. You could’ve been sandwiched between two pretty feet, but instead you’re getting a pile-driver into the mattress. Do you prefer that?
Who cares. All I know is the little lump of your body is caught beneath my foot, taking on more and more weight as I raise my hips from the mattress and work my pussy up into a froth, and I bite my lip and think I can taste you again, and you’re not moving under my foot and even that’s fucking sexy, and my thighs tremble and I feel like I have to pee and I wonder if you’d be into that, and then I can’t breathe.
Oh, fuck, that was a big one. My body slowly melts back to the bed. I’m not crying, you’re crying. My vengeful foot plucks you up from the sheets and cranes around until I can pluck you free, and this time my sopping-wet fingers drape you tenderly upon my burning, gooshing pussy. There you go, little man. Just stay there, and don’t make me come looking for you. I just need to rest for a bit, so stay there, glued in place… oh, you’re kissing me. Right there? You little fucker… fine, let’s see where this goes.
3 thoughts on “Hungry Woman”
This must have been a blast to write. Just headlong channeling your muse while she channels you. A literal jam session.
I envy you the encouragement you receive as well as the license to write from her perspective. Second-person narration was absolutely the way to do this.
It’s all about you at these times, when it should be all about me. Is that a lesson you can learn before you die? I wonder.
Keep her wondering. That’s the only goal.
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That’s exactly what it was. A very strong scene came to mind and played itself through, and I had no choice but to sit down and exorcise it. It required the most editing because I’d get drinky and tired, and I’d come back to it later and find portions nearly unreadable. I was just compelled to keep writing it.
I hope to hear from a couple women about false notes struck. That would be helpful to me, but I don’t expect it.
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They’ll never tell you what you got wrong, but with any luck they’ll write their own stories where we can see them.
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