Aborigen

The bold words shocked even her. It was like something else was speaking through her, someone bolder and hungrier.

No, not hungrier. Layton was racked with hunger for this tiny little person. But whoever was taking the mic, they were unafraid to speak their truth bluntly, even with a little sprinkling of style. What is it you’re bringing out of me, little man, she thought.

The little man was nothing but two semi-transparent blurry smears of flesh, a couple inches apart because her eyes lacked the strength to cross that hard. She lay there, holding her head still, breathing into him. He didn’t scoot out of the way to avoid her hot hair, and he didn’t retreat from the shadowy, moist crevice between her lips.

He was trembling. She could feel the way his little mouse-body shivered on her lower face. She wanted to cup him in her palms, let his nervousness bleed into her flesh, get flushed away in her veins. She thought about how he curled up in her hand for the last two weeks. His curled form, weighing next to nothing, fitting neatly in the contours of her palm like he’d been whittled down personally for her grip. Hot on the heels of that image was the scene from last night, how his little body went boneless, heaving with hard breathing, after she rubbed four orgasms out of him. Without thinking, her lips bared slightly and her incisors clashed, grinding with the tension in her toes, her calves, her inner thighs, her chest.

The little man didn’t flinch, though her huge, off-white teeth snapped fractions of an inch from his hands. She gasped, shocked at losing that much control, and she started to babble out an apology, but … he was unfazed. The dual-image of his little body remained in place, not flinching or rolling away. From what she could tell, he was fascinated. Everything she did, the sheen of her teeth and the texture of her lips, he was studying it all, even while he shivered.

The general impression rotated like a globe in her mind: no, he wasn’t shivering. He was trembling. Layton blink-blinked as the notion struck her. He wanted this badly, even if he didn’t know exactly what “this” was. Maybe he’d never been with a giant woman before. Maybe there were no tiny women. Her little adventurer had been acting on impulse and instinct all this time, perhaps as frightened by his own nascent desires as he should have been of her fist or teeth. It never occurred to her that maybe he had no idea what he was doing at all. Did he glimpse her from the wheat fields? Was he even aware of her before she lured him into the metal box? And now he was making love to a giantess, bending like a bridge between her upper and lower jaws, getting heavily breathed on while her teeth snapped inches away from him.

All this, and it was clear he wanted more. Whatever he was struggling with inside, a large, strong part of him wanted much more of whatever they were doing. He’d explored her, touched her, tasted her, and he was committed to this path.

Layton’s puffy pink lips closed briefly, then she broke them apart with the tip of her tongue. Tiny taste buds glistened on the rounded end of this pink muscle. Her upper lip flared as the tip of her tongue curled down and ran thoughtfully over her own fat bottom lip. The tip of her tongue also ran over his knees and thighs, right to left, then left to right, then curled up and touched his abs.

He crumpled. His arms gave out, he made a noise, and his negligible weight sprawled flat across her lips. He flung his arms out, grabbing for anything to hold onto, but there was no chance of him falling into her mouth.

So weak. So easy. Layton hummed to herself, quietly, sending soft jets of warm air over his shoulders. What could it have sounded like to him? She couldn’t begin to imagine. She let him lay there, stunned, aching with his own little needs, and her voice vibrated through him as she improvised a gentle, nonsense melody. His chest lay upon the tip of her tongue, trembling, and she felt everything this time. My, he was tasty. Was that what was left over from last night? The corner of her lips curled up as she realized they never bothered to clean him up. He didn’t ask for it, and it didn’t occur to her. So today he was a tasty little man.

Slowly she pulled her tongue back inside, letting her lips close, then pressed a gentle, warm kiss into his torso. She literally lifted him with nothing more than her kiss, elevating him a little on the mound of her lips. The thought amused her, shoving a little man around with her lips, with her tongue …

“You’ve touched my body.” The huskiness of her voice surprised herself. “Now … show me how you want to be taken.”

Oh, my gosh. Did that come out of her?

The little man wasted no time, practically scrambling to his knees, stabilizing himself on her chin. The blurry dual-image of the well-shaped little man hovered in the lowest reaches of her vision. She could see him turning slight, looking around, checking her out. But his hands came down upon her lips again, her lower lip. No, one on her sensitive upper lip, too. What was he doing? He shoved …

Layton’s pulse shot up immediately. The tiny man pushed her lips apart, up and down, and he drew one knee to rest upon her teeth. He held there, waiting for something, maybe waiting for her to help. No, she couldn’t do this, could she? She couldn’t eat a tiny man, not after what it took to capture and befriend him. That wasn’t what she wanted at all. Was he going crazy?

Her bare chest rose with a heavy, full sigh. If he didn’t have a death wish, then what could this mean? He held her lips spread with his thighs, and she couldn’t feel it but his tiny fingers wormed between her closed teeth to attempt to pry them apart. She couldn’t feel this, but she opened her mouth anyway. Her teeth parted like a slow trap door, and he braced himself upon her teeth, arms and legs spreading as the gap widened beneath him.

His weight shifted. She saw the blurry figure turn, planting one bare butt cheek on her lower teeth. He braced both hands against her upper row, and she felt his legs slide over her tongue when he lowered himself into her mouth. Holy shit. Holy shit. He was doing it. Instantly she began to salivate, not out of any desire to eat him but just nervousness, the invasion of something foreign making its own way into her mouth. Like flop-sweats but for the mouth. She could feel the dig of his tiny heels over her taste buds, the spread of his thin little legs, and that had to be his cute little butt scooting over her tongue.

Abruptly she realized where he was and her pink, puffy lips sealed around his waist. He was thinner here, no bones to protect his sides, but her lips were nice and cushy for the embrace. The tip of her tongue snaked up from under his butt to the small of his back, tasting the skin over his bones, then back down, parting his cheeks, parting his thighs.

He cried out, a high, thin ribbon of incoherent pleasure. His lower body was helpless behind her lips, and his fists pounding on her upper lip affected nothing. If anything, her lips puckered and tightened around his frail body as she struggled to hold him in place through her delighted smile. She sighed happily, blowing on him through her nose. Her lips swelled and rose to where his ribs started: she increased the vacuum in her mouth and sucked on his legs like sucking cake frosting off her own finger. Or like something else.

The sensation of his tiny bare legs running over her tongue, as she rubbed him back and forth, trapped in her mouth, was unlike anything else she’d known. It deserved study. Her fingers gently bit into the mattress by her sides and she rolled her hips to restore circulation in her butt, flexed her feet up and down, clenched her toes, and rubbed her tongue into the bare ass and legs of a miniature man in her mouth. When she thought about it like that, it was insane, but then the fact of his soft skin and incredibly warm limbs shooed away any doubts or sense of unlikelihood. He was here, she was massaging him with her tongue, it was real. She practiced flexing her lips around his body, pulsing like a kiss he stuck out in the middle of.

The noises he made. He held nothing back. His back arched and he howled up to the cavernous ceiling until it petered out with a choke. He hammered on her upper lip with a reflexive ha-ha-ha kind of scream, like something was really funny or he’d stepped onto a hot surface. Her tongue spread his legs, and the blind, blunt tip poked around where she knew his genitalia should be. They were just kind of hard to find at this size. She didn’t want to insult him, you know, by searching for something, not finding it, and retreating, so she just kinda scrubbed his crotch back and forth with the tip of her tongue, hoping she wasn’t mauling his balls too hard. He seemed to like it, at any rate.

Layton was so curious about his little body. Despite having him in her room for over two weeks, she’d never gotten the chance to just … study him. Fixate on him. Pull out a magnifying glass, spread his limbs, really scrutinize the detail on his immaculate little form. Her tongue did that now, rubbing the backs of his thighs, palpating the gentle knots of his calves. Muscular, lean but muscular. One of her hands slid over her breast, mashing it in slow circles while she tried to pick out the details of his ankles, heels, and toes. He sure was ticklish, kicking around in her saliva, uselessly shoving her curious tongue away. That made her laugh, and her lips pulled back but her incisors gripped his waist.

Both her hands were on her breasts when she decided to wrap up this stage. There was one more thing she wanted to try, and she didn’t see why she had to put it off any longer. Once more her thick tongue muscled his little legs wide open, and the tip of her tongue nudged and twitched where she was convinced his junk had to be. Slowly she inhaled, sucking cold air around his upper body, then breathed hot, moist air into his face and chest. Her thumbs found her nipples as she practiced the smallest, slightest micro-gestures with her tongue she’d ever imagined. There was definitely something soft up there, between his thighs, but not soft like touching his soft thigh. Soft like an extra flap of skin. She knew that had to be it, but it felt so strange, and not seeing what she was doing didn’t help anything.

His thighs tensed and pinched her tongue. He had no more strength than her pinkies, maybe, but he was definitely grabbing at her with his legs. Figuring she must be doing something right, she tried moaning again, bringing up her deep and husky voice (to him, anyway) to rumble through every wet cell in his body. A series of cascading sighs, nudging between his legs, the pulse of her lips around him, a little more suction … on and on like this, playing him slowly, savoring him. She wanted to feel everything, she wanted to learn. She read him as he shifted between states, when he nearly came, when he relaxed, his tantrum when holy fuck he really needed to come. The way his tiny body shook between her lips, that was delicious all in itself. He yelled, something like little chirps, and his hips would buck and roll, seeking her tongue, trying to grind against it.

Then she let him. Enough was enough. She ran her tongue up between his legs and then, holy fuck, there was his erection. How did she miss that? Dozens of taste buds flowed over the underside of his cock, nudged at his balls, rolled his cock back and forth over his belly, then pressed and pressed—

Her eyes widened. She could taste him. She totally tasted that. It disappeared as she analyzed it, immediately broken up in the bath of her saliva, but it was definitely there. And then her mind ran an instant replay on the noise he’d made but which she missed because, holy fuck, she could taste him. Now he was whimpering, gibbering, because she forgot to stop grinding her tongue into his sensitive, spent cock. Oops.

One of her hands vacated her breast and carefully caught his limp form. She pinched him under his arms and drew him out, and her lips sucked off excess saliva from his skin as he exited. He collapsed into her palm just like he used to, or like he did last night, but his face. Layton blink-blinked and carefully scooted back, piling a couple pillows behind her shoulders, the better to study him.

His eyes were open. Something had changed. She could see all his features, everything, clearly. He was a sharply handsome man. He would’ve been a pool shark or a car thief if he were bigger, and he definitely would have a sizable body count. But here, now, he was just stunned, his jaw hanging open, his eyes staring up at her intently. He stared at her, and he locked her gaze. She stared back; her head drifted slightly to the side, to deflect the energy she felt radiating from him how, but her eyes turned to hold him absolutely. His arms and legs were spread out, glistening with her spit, weak and weirdly arrayed, and his little mouse-ribcage heaved with gulping breaths. But he stared at her like his life depended on it. He was considering the giant woman to whom he had just surrendered himself.

Without blinking, she slowly brought him back up to her mouth. Tenderly she pressed her full lips upon him, aligned with the length of his body. Not to tease or stimulate, but to claim him. Mark him.

“You’re mine now … aren’t you.”

His expression never changed, only ducked as he slowly, completely nodded his head.