Aborigen

The curtains waved gently at the window, glowing with the morning’s indirect brilliance. Honey-warmed air drifted in, heavy with earth and wheat fields, like breakfast being made for a giant.

Layton came aware she was lying on her side. Her eyes were gluey, and as she rubbed them, her unrelated dreams melted and trickled away into the psychic gutter. She wondered what was the biological imperative for this, and then she froze. She suddenly recalled she hadn’t been alone in bed. Scraping the crust from one eye, she stared at the pillow beside her and found it empty (but for the discarded jeans). Instant-like, her body flushed with cold water and she would not move an inch. She ran an inventory of her entire body, where the parts of her rested, what they were touching, searching for any untoward lumps.

Not finding anything amiss, she ventured to lift the light quilt and sheet covering her body. In the night, her nightgown rumpled and bunched below her ribs, leaving her hips and thighs bare. Before her belly, the gentle, pleasant swell of her belly, her tiny man lay on the mattress. He was still zonked out, but one thin arm reached out and—she gasped—his tiny palm was planted to her belly as though pasted there. As though she were his anchor to the tumultuous sea of her vast bed.

Early as it was, sleepy as she was, her crotch gooshed. Good lord.

Did he feel her belly twitch? Did he feel her pelvic floor shiver at the realization? Maybe the psychic wave of her discovery rocked him where he lay. Either way, his tiny dark-haired head rocked back and forth for a moment, and his other little arm lifted and bent and rubbed the slumber from the little black dots of his eyes.

She wanted to grab him and smother him in kisses. Hell, she wanted to jam him between her thighs and scrub-a-dub-dub until he drowned.

“Morning,” she murmured instead.

The tiny head canted back into the mattress, craning to perceive her. Blink-blink went his eyes, and then he jerked his hand back in surprise. He might’ve said “morning” back, it was hard to tell.

“Sleep well?”

The tiny head nodded, digging into the sheets.

“Any … dreams?” She was stalling. She could feel the voice, the cooler aspect who knew what to do, trying to emerge from her throat. He shook his head, she said she couldn’t remember hers either, and before she could summon any more small talk, the voice took over. It was an aspect of herself that she wanted to be. It was the clever comeback as she walked away from an awkward situation. It was the compelling pick-up line for the cutest guy in the bar; it was the devastating put-down as that guy overstepped his boundaries. And there was something about this little man, thin and weak and frail, that brought it out of her.

“You’ve … tasted what I can give you.” She breathed; beside him, the wall of her belly swelled and receded, and he stared at it, and she felt his eyes.

“But now I want to know what you would do with me.”

Layton stretched. Her arms reached up and behind herself, shoving the pillow momentarily aside. Her thighs vibrated with the deep and yummy stretch, rattling the mattress. Yes, she even saw his tiny body tremble with the force of her full-bodied stretch. It was that good.

“I want to know what you’d do with me if I gave myself to you.” Turn-taking. “No commands, no direction from me. I will only lie here, perfectly still … as still as I can.”

The tiny man canted his head back to stare at her. That was no good: he rolled fitfully to his chest, propped up on his arms, and fucking gawked at her.

She nodded, once. “I’ll stay right here, perfectly still. For you.” One of her arms reached down, slowly, like a cloud in the sky’s low ceiling, and the back of her fingernail dragged down from the nape of his neck to the crack of his ass, oh, so slowly. Her arm retracted; her other arm folded under her head, supporting it.

“Explore.” This was as close to a command as she would come.

It was a long moment as he lay there, staring across the bedscape at her. Her breasts were in the way, for one thing, and the little dots on his face darted over to glimpse them occasionally. That much, at least, was noticeable. Slowly he rose to his knees, on all fours, then his dark head ducked as, remembering, he glanced at his own nakedness. He looked up at the soft, marshmallowy mountain on which his pants were left, and it looked as though he considered cupping one hand over his shame while trying to worship this young goddess. She smirked as he abandoned this tactic, presumably concluding that after a night of repeatedly cumming on her fingertip, there was nothing to be shy about. Good boy, she thought.

The tiny man tried to stand. It didn’t work, on her puffy mattress. Layton, sighing, caused a minor earthquake in her bed as she struggled to jerk her nightgown over her head as quickly as possible, without accidentally crushing her companion. Tossing it away, impatient with horniness, she briefly pressed him into her soft belly as she rolled to her back, settling in and releasing him. He was stunned, visibly, but recovered soon. On all fours, now, perched on her stomach, he stared up at her, his eyes wide and alert. He looked like a thief caught in the act, with absolutely nowhere to run. Was he allowed to touch her here? And if not, where could he possibly go that would be any less offending? Even she felt her cheeks dimple as she smirked, gracing him with a tender nod, closing her eyes in benediction.

And even she could feel the relief flooding through his little body. Slowly, unsteadily, he attempted to rise to his feet on her stomach, and he did it. Her flesh was soft, she could see the dents his inconsiderable weight made in her skin, but he stood there. He didn’t run, he didn’t bounce around, he only … took her in. Took in the lay of the land, turning his head in a ponderous circle, studying every inch of her. She felt his gaze, a hot arc sliding over one breast, her sternum, the other,  down where the low edge of her ribs jutted, down to the unprotected guts of her side, above her hip. Then back again, just as meditatively, taking every detail in.

He was studying her. The tiny man standing on her bare belly was studying every inch of her body, every inch of her skin, picking up on details she couldn’t possibly be aware of. The twinge of self-consciousness plucked in the back of her mind, but the rest of her was absorbed with his attention. He wouldn’t make a move until he knew everything he was dealing with. This study, it was a form of reverence: having been granted access to a giantess, he would at least burn her bodyscape into his memory, in case he ever woke up from this reverie.

Layton, true to her word, held perfectly still. She was as transfixed with the tiny man’s doings as he was with the sharp slope of her side, the sheltering curve of her underboob. The way he stared at her, ate her with his eyes, his tiny little eyes … she had never felt so seen by anything or anyone before. It killed her to lie there, when parts of her were throbbing with a deficit of attention, yes, even first thing in the morning. But she said she’d lie there. She wanted to see what he’d do, having a giantess at his disposal.

He began to walk. Tiny little footsteps, slow and thoughtful to him but maddeningly tiny to her. His bare feet (impossibly hot against her skin!) trod the narrow valley between her abs, where the thinnest, shortest hairs of spun glass ran. He balanced himself well, responding easily to her shallow breathing, recovering well when the ticklishness over her abdomen was too much to bear, and he made his way up from her navel to the yoke where the symmetry of her ribs met. One thin little leg reached up, accessing a grade far too subtle for her eyes, and one soft, hot footstep planted upon the base of her sternum.

Her eyes flew open. She was so transfixed with the intricate melody of his miniaturized movements, she’d entirely forgotten he was entering her breast-zone. Fuck, he was right between her tits! This tiny, perfect, naked little man was in the valley of her boobs! Oh, God, she wanted to crush him between them! She wanted to cup her nicely shaped tits and just fuckin’ drive them into him, grind him, really feel that fine little body in her flesh. Her lips pursed with the thought, she chewed her lips at the visuals. Just to fuckin’ crush him between her boobs, oh God, yes, pinch her own nips, maybe hear him scream, that would be so nice right now.

But of course she didn’t, that wasn’t the stated agreement.

Still. She wondered if he could feel her heart hammering under the earth upon which he now stood. Likely! Likely he could. He was much smaller and sensitive to more things, and her heart was fucking pounding.

Now he kneeled. Knelt. Whichever. “Knelt” was British, wasn’t it? They were very far from Britain, or England, or the UK. She wasn’t sure which. FUCK! Why was she thinking about this? She shook her head sharply and widened her eyes and stared at the bare-naked little miracle crawling on all fours between her boobs. Was he really? Oh my God, look at him. Why? Why was he doing this?

His left hand swept outward in a quarter-arc, then swept back in, gliding over her skin. He blinked slowly, turned his head, and his right arm swept out in an arc. His left hand was feeling her skin, but his right hand was running over the baby-fine hairs of her skin. He was truly studying her, everywhere, every last detail. He crept forward again, couldn’t have been more than a couple inches, but she swore to God she saw his tiny tongue dart from between his tiny lips and lick them in a flicker before his shoulders lowered and his hand swept out in another, wider, greedier arc over her skin. His tiny fingers bumped against the slightest acne, just a baby whitehead, really.

Blood flooded to Layton’s cheeks and she had the impulse to swat him away, scrape an entire inch of flesh out of her body, and run screaming to the bathroom for repairs. It wasn’t her vow, this time, that held her still. Through her mortification she happened to notice his microscopic index finger poke at the bump, feel it out, and then his thumb flicked out and with a superfine thumbnail dug in at the right angle, the little waxen lump popped out like it had been waiting to be released all this time. The tiny man considered it in his hand for a moment, flung it aside with a couple tries, then resumed worshipping her skin as though nothing had happened.

That was unexpected. Handy, she thought.

He reached her sternum, crawled into the center of her breastbone, directly between the shy hillsides of her breasts. All this time, he hadn’t looked up at her face to read her reaction or anything. His eyes were trained upon her skin and all its features. Now, upon her chest, near her heart, the tiny man did not look up. He sat there for a minute, hot palms on skin, knees and feet tucked to support him as he seemed to be thinking about something.

His dark head dipped before his shoulders did. Layton could not see his face as it pressed into her skin, she couldn’t really feel his hot little lips pushing into her, but she sure as fuck thought she did. She thought lightning struck her dead in the chest and spread throughout her bones and flesh and blood and everything. Her jaw dropped, something she thought only happened in stories, and her eyes flew open to stare at the gesture on her own chest.

He wasn’t making out with her. There was no tongue, no groping of tiny fingers against the plains of her flesh, no moaning, no rolling, grinding hips against her. It was just one solemn dip of the upper body, the steady placement of his face upon her sternum, and the solemn application of his lips.

He worshipped her. She felt fucking worshipped. In that tiny millimeter of contact, that was the closest she’d come to encountering the sacred. Something—someone—loved her with complete and unabashed surrender. With this simple and scaled-down gesture, someone had given himself to her entirely. The bed fell away from beneath her. The ceiling, the walls, they flew away and did not exist anymore, not near her. She was surrounded by the tiny kiss of this tiny man who paused, thought about it, and pressed himself into her in the most honest communication possible.

Layton wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. She wanted to crush him in her fists in adoration. And yes, of course, it goes without saying she wanted to stuff, stuff, stuff that little fucker inside her and crush him within an inch of his life.

But she couldn’t. The kiss laid her out, shocked her to her core. All she could do was watch, limbs enervated, wind knocked out of her, as the tiny man meditated on his lips pressed to her skin.

In the next moment he simply arose to all fours, hands and knees, and continued his way up her chest. One hand plodding after the other, slowly, as though planning where each would land. As though it mattered. His head swung to her left breast, right over her pounding heart, and his body swayed its course until he leaned against it. One hand, sweeping up in a half-circle from his head to his hip, taking in as much of her skin as he could reach. His little palm left a trace of heat, so she thought, as it dragged over her soft, smooth skin. When it reached as far as he could go, when he’d extended himself, his tiny little body collapsed against the slope of her breast, falling into it in a rapture of respite. His thin little arms reached out and embraced as much of her as he could reach, and his face was deeply buried in her pillowy flesh. His knees, they struggled, continuing to push himself along, but it was like the top half of his body was no longer communicating with the bottom. His legs wanted to propel him to get him somewhere, but his upper body was exactly where it wanted to be.

She watched his legs kick, futilely, like an insect’s, rubbing against her skin. Layton didn’t know whether she should help him along or watch him struggle, like, maybe the struggle was the point. Oh … yes, it was. The locomotion of his legs gave way to a simple swimming of his limbs over her skin, and though she couldn’t feel his erection, not the stem nor the heat of it, she would recognize that urgent, hungry grinding of hips anywhere. That was when the brain shut off and parts of the body had seceded from the union to pursue their own goals. His hips, apparently, were in charge of eroding a hole in the base of her mammary, led by his excited little cock.

He was unashamed. He wanted what he wanted, in this moment, and he was going for it. Hadn’t she offered herself to him? Didn’t she want to know what his worship would look like? She watched him, ungainly and uncoordinated, succumbing to the needs of his body against the hillside of her breast. She would offer herself to him—she was offering herself to him. He could embarrass himself against her if he wanted: in this moment, she was his to do with as he pleased. She wanted to be. She wanted to see where this would go, how a tiny man could love a giantess, or what the awkward, vulnerable failure could look like.

His arms groped her breast. His chest drove into her resilient flesh. His legs kicked, spread, kicked again, and his teeny-tiny little butt cheeks pinched and clenched as he pursued his bliss. They pinched and held when he released, the tiniest spill, the sharpest little grunt when he cried out. Layton was fascinated, watching the little, rutting body nudging against her boob, tightening up until she was afraid he might break himself in half, and then the lovely way he loosened and draped in her cleavage … this was all highly educational and highly entertaining. She loved it, so much.

After a couple minutes of heavy breathing and the flexing of tiny joints, he roused himself and resumed crawling around the hillside of her chest, up toward her neck. Her vision cut out here as he disappeared beneath her jaw; she dug her head back into the downy pillow and let her gaze drift around the ceiling, seeing nothing, training all her senses on his light little body. There was a ticklishness around the base of her throat, and it drifted to one of her collarbones. Those tiny hot hands, she felt sure she could identify, and then shyest, slightest dig of his knees in her skin as he made his way along. He crawled out toward her shoulder, along the length of her bone, and then turned back to the depression where collarbones almost met. The weight shifted there, concentrating on two points, and when his tiny hands gripped her chin, she realized he was standing there, all point-nothing ounces of him, on her throat.

A blur emerged at the bottom range of her vision. She strained her eyes to look downward as far as they could, but finally was forced to tilt her head slightly down until she could just make out his blurry face. The tiny man said nothing, only stared up at her, questioning, searching. Not horny, not frightened, but very earnest about something else entirely.

His awe drifted over her lips in a faint breeze. He wanted to know … if he was worthy. Of all this. The giantess, her body, just being here.

The question by itself made her smile. She smiled, her cheeks swelled, her lips dimpled, and she smiled upon him with real warmth, tenderness. Affection, that he would ask such a question.

His arms reached out, his fingers pinched and groped, and his tiny chest heaved upon her chin. His hands pinched at her bottom lip, at the microfine hairs beneath it, and slowly his little body wriggled upon her face, just below her mouth. Two knees pressed into her skin, and blurred as he was she could see him bending over her mouth with the intensity of an archaeological dig, perhaps. His tiny hands, his warm palms, his fingers ran over her lips as far as he could reach. Tiny fingers slipped in and out of the wrinkles of her lisp; hot little palms swept slowly over these tender and sensitive tissues. Little fingers, outlining where the hue of lip faded rapidly into the hue of skin.

She parted her lips. They peeled briefly, momentarily adhered, then spread ticklishly across their width. Layton did not gape her jaws and threaten to gobble him down: she only wanted to give him a little more access, maybe, if he wanted it. And, having parted her lips, she slowly breathed upon him.

He didn’t flinch. His head trained downward, gazing between her lips, and he received her breeze like benediction. And he breathed. His tiny body panted, rising and falling by millimeters, as he inhaled her exhale in turns. He sucked her in, held her, released her, but some part of him would remain. Some part of the giantess, in increments, embedded within his tiny body for keeps. He closed his eyes as she breathed out, feeling the humid gust around his head, listening to the trace of her voice in the wind from her throat.

He moaned. It was a tiny noise, but low enough to make a difference. It bounced around in her mouth, and she heard it. The tiny man leaned toward her parted lips, leaned into the breeze of her breath, and he moaned in exultation and desire. The tiny body canted, momentarily off-kilter; his tiny hands scrabbled at her upper lip and then planted, holding him in an arch above her mouth. He breathed harder, panting, maybe out of panic, maybe out of the lust that made him lose balance. That she would breathe on him, that she would open her mouth so slightly and share something so intrinsically biologic … that meant something, to both of them.

He remained there for another minute or two, braced against her upper lip, kneeling at her lower lip, gazing into the abyss of her mouth. She was frustrated she couldn’t see all of what he was going through, but she was able to read enough in the way his slight weight shifted on her face and the gesture of his pale blur in the lowest range of her vision. He wouldn’t move. He stared, he breathed, and he waited for something. Maybe he didn’t know what, or maybe he was scared to act on it. She had offered herself to him, completely, and yet there were limits.

But that he wanted her, there was no question. She didn’t have to feel the way his tiny fingers bit into her sensitive upper lip. She didn’t have to count the seconds he lingered over the geyser of her breath. He knelt, he stared, he sucked her in, because he wanted. Badly.

Layton closed her eyes, lust-madded but confident. She let her shoulders relax against the bed, and the tension melted from her neck. She drew in a long breath, and her sternum gently popped to her great satisfaction. She even rolled her hips, abruptly conscious of how her glutes had tensed in commiseration with the rest of her body.

Deliberately, she slowly breathed out, opening her mouth just that much wider, and gusted herself into the tiny body. With this she said without words, and she knew he heard it: “You can have all of me … when you’re ready to take it.”