Aborigen

Layton couldn’t sleep. When she glanced at him, she saw the little man couldn’t sleep. They lay perfectly still in her bed, very aware of each other.

She listened to her own breathing, wondered if it sounded too loud to him. That made her overly conscious of the noise of air rushing up and down her throat. She tried holding her breath, but that only made her heart beat louder in her own head. She gasped for breath, then went stock-still, staring up at the dark ceiling in horror. He was going to think she was a freak, holding her breath for no reason, or else he might think she was choking in her sleep, and then what would he do? What could he do? How horrible, she thought, to finally end up in bed with a lovely and willing giantess, only to helplessly witness her choking on her own saliva to death.

Slowly she learned new ways of breathing, controlling her excited chest to slowly let air sink into her lungs and gently push it out, almost completely silently. She practiced that for a while, and then she listened for him, carefully.

She could hear him. Layton could hear the tiny man on the pillow beside her head. She turned to hear him better but her skull roared with the crinkle of her own hair rubbing against the pillow, and the feathers with which the pillow was stuffed, so she held still once more. From him, in the stillness of her darkened room, she could just make out the slightest whistle of a tiny throat. She blink-blinked in awe, and her hand drifted down to her own furry mons, beneath her nightgown. His breathing was steady, rhythmic, predictable. She couldn’t detect any irregularities, like if he was nervous or anxious.

His breath, not far from her ear, was a silver thread only just glinting in the darkness, the slimmest trickle of water down a polished glass. How cool, to hear a tiny person actually breathing. That led, naturally, to wondering if she could press her ear upon his body and hear his heart beat. She pursed her lips and squinted: maybe not right now.

She drew a long, steady breath in through her nostrils, taking a little pleasure in the sensation of her chest filling. She could grab him. She could just reach over and grab him, and there wouldn’t be anything he could do about it. Maybe he’d find a way to flee tomorrow, but she’d make him pay for that in advance. She’d just have to use him hard and quick to—

No. Nope. That wasn’t the deal. The only way to know he was into this, to know he really wanted it, was for him to decide when and how. Her fingers itched maddeningly with where that could go, but she waited. Layton had issued the invitation, and that was all there was to it.

Still. It was already a fucking hour, and she didn’t want to miss his signal just because she’d fallen asleep (as if she could). She could do something, completely naturally, something she’d do anyway even if he weren’t here. Each night, it felt wonderful to slip into her clean sheets and spread out, let her spine decompress as she reviewed the day passed, but eventually she had to turn. That’s what she did right now, simply turning onto her side, just like she always did, a simple, innocuous gesture that meant nothing.

And now she was facing him. Now she could clearly see the little shadowy smudge in the center of her pillow. The tiny chest rising and falling carefully, breathing somewhere between relaxation and basal fear. There, that was all. She was just lying on her side, and she happened to be watching him in the darkness. In the position she got to stare at him for the longest time, what felt like another hour. His precious, thin arms, lying beside his chest. His bare skin glowed slightly, not as bright as the pillowcase, or so she thought. A luminous little man, lying where she might have rested her head another night. In jeans, teeny-tiny little jeans he made himself. Such a clever little man. Her arm, the one resting on her side, twitched and her hand started to move, but her fingers splayed with warning to herself as she withdrew again. Just lying here, that’s all she was doing, staring at the diminutive little being controlling his breathing a short distance from her head.

Layton sensed she was being ridiculous. Another long breath through her nostrils. There were better ways to wait.

But when she exhaled, it was a long, warm, rolling stream that burbled over her hair and flowed over his pillow, warm and sweet with mint from brushing her teeth, warm and a little humid.

Was that too much? The tiny man didn’t move, other than the trace gesture of his own breathing. Her lips parted and she pulled in another long, deep breath, swelling her belly a little, and after holding it she released it. Another leisurely breath issuing from her hot lips, pouring over the pillow as she visualized it, covering her company in something warm and damp from her body. Did he like it? Did he even notice it? She knocked it off, just in case it was irritating.

Then he moved. She held her breath, unconsciously, and watched him undo whatever was fastening his jeans around the waist. He tugged them over his bare, glowing butt—the tiniest, cutest little pair of buttocks, oh God, she wanted to bite them—and his legs cycled as he kicked them off and away. He too rolled to his side, but the same side she had, now facing away.

That could mean anything. Layton’s mind locked up with the possibilities. Sure, the pants was a good indicator, but maybe he was too hot. His little body did produce an awful lot of hot, and these were down pillows, so, yeah, he could be overheating. And turning away? Maybe he was hiding his privacy. His ass was bare, but his junk was out of view, closed between his little thighs. Her fat bottom lip curled in disapproval at this.

Maybe this was a move for his own privacy. She blink-blinked in the darkness and followed that trail. Maybe it was a little too much for him, too. He shucked his pants, sure, but what if rolling to his side was creating his own space, just for him? In a night of being overwhelmed by a giantess? It wasn’t impossible.

His tiny spine made that slight shadow of a line against the skin pulled taut over his ribs. Just the merest whisper of a shadow, marking the symmetry of his tiny, perfect build.

What if that was an invitation. In a way.

Layton couldn’t help herself, this time. The alarm of moving into his personal space, uninvited, ceded ground to the purity of her intent, another innocent gesture that could mean lots of things. From her soft fist her index finger stretched, floating through the darkness, slowing to make the gentlest contact with his shoulder blades. Her fingerprint stuck briefly to his skin, just below his head, and his shoulders tugged when she drew it down. Her fingertip slid over that faint, slight arc of shadow down his back. She could barely perceive all the structure underneath his perfect skin, the bumpy vertebrae, the fine ribs, and where his sides went soft after the ribs ran out.

He shivered so hard that she had to do it again, softer, slower. When she got to his pelvis the second time, pausing there just above his nibble-sized ass cheeks, his hips rolled. No, they ground against her fingertip. They wanted something. That was a clear signal, even Layton had to interpret that correctly.

The pillow and her hair rustled as her face drew closer, and her warm breath coated him: “Is this what you want?” And then she did wait, motionless. One fingertip just above his butt.

He nodded. The messy mop of black hair nodded once, twice, slowly. “Yes.” His voice was strained but clear.

Layton allowed her head to rest where it reached now, letting her heart pound as fast as it needed to while she retraced her path down his thin, lovely body. Over and over, just her fingertip, reading the fine print in his bones, memorizing him. Yes, memorizing every little feature so she could draw it the next day. Stroking gently, as though he were coated in the finest fur, only this one simple gesture over and over, somehow different each time. Like his moves: sometimes he laid there and took it, and sometimes it was as though something had been unlocked, some binding snapped, and his delicate body writhed against her touch. His shoulders would nudge into her, seeking some kind of release and using her finger to get it. His sides would turn slightly, wanting to be felt everywhere. And that tiny little moan she almost couldn’t hear.

He had given this to her, and she deserved it. She was going to enjoy this for as long as it existed. She smiled, she permitted herself to smile, when his churning became more insistent. When one thigh slid off the other, when his spindly little arms braced himself against the clean linen, the better to rub his back into her finger. Harder, longer. More.

Again the voice rose from within her, the voice that knew her better than she did herself. Her face leaned in almost close enough to lick him off the pillowcase, and her lips stuck briefly before she whispered unto him:

“You don’t know, yet.

“What I’ll do to you.

“When you can’t take any more.”

The tiny moan twisted in the darkness to a choked squeal, a gasp for a period. A seal broke and everything moved quickly.

He rolled to his back, his tiny legs spread. This was an invitation, it was even begging. Layton’s pupils were blown wide to see everything, and her fingertip’s sensitivity felt heightened as it ran over the fine muscles in his thighs, up and down. His knobby little knee, his jutting hip, and the tender flesh between. She couldn’t blink, she wasn’t even sure if she was breathing. She only stared at his glowing body, his face awe-struck as he gaped at her, and the worn ridges in her fingertip rubbed the underside of his tiny penis, rubbed the tiny little twig into his own belly. Up and down, tiny circles. No spit, no pinch, just rubbing him as delicately as making the rim of a crystal wine glass sing.

And he sang. His face pinched up as though he’d bitten a lime. He reached for her fingertip, then forced himself back. His thighs, though, they clamped around her fingertip, one knee rubbing against the rough skin where she bit it. He gripped her fingertip with his tiny legs, nothing at all to her, except she felt it so keenly, as she did the hot splash, less than a droplet, over the whorl of her print.

Good, she thought, and started rubbing him again now that she had something slick to work with.

He came just as hard the second time, relatively speaking, and the third and fourth. Layton made no expression, said nothing else, only watched him like the most patient cat in the world, equal parts confidence, mild confusion, and hunger.

There was something about his cry, after all that, an unabashed howl into the darkness, a sob, a prayer. Layton nodded, carefully scooped his feverish little body into the couch of her palm, where he melted like wax in flame.

Now she closed her eyes. Now she drew the precious little body to her mouth, and now she covered him with the kiss he’d been waiting for since the day he was born. She certainly had. He’d only had to earn it, that was all, and now that she did, now that she had him, really had him … she kissed him, pressing her puckered lips into his chest, and then she lay still once more. She only watched him, nude, disassembled in her palm, until sleep somehow overtook her.