Aborigen

This was it, then. He wasn’t going back to his house, to go to sleep. The little man was going to stay with Layton, in her bed, in her clutches. No! Not her clutches. Her hands, her …

Right now, he was lying on her chest. Her hands curled protectively below his body. Him, below him. Below … she didn’t even know his name. She’d done things with him, intimate things, and she hardly knew anything about him.

The darkness of the corners of her room seemed especially deep. On her nightstand a little lamp, modeled after an oil lamp with a clicky Bakelite switch, cast a warm glow over the landscape of her bed. She lay upon the sheets, letting the energy of the day burn off like vapors, and in the shadow of one of her breasts lay her little lover. Sometimes he turned his head to the side and laid it flush against her flesh; sometimes, as though a thought had occurred to him, he looked up and folded his forearms beneath his jaw. Her heart pounded slow and heavy beneath him—just having him here, seeing him on her chest, made her feel ginormous. She wasn’t larger than many people in her environment, certainly not the giant that was her salt-of-the-earth father, but this little guy made her arms stretch into the distance, made her muscles and pulse feel like a wartime factory at peak operation.

Sometimes Layton stared at the ceiling, trying so hard to detect the marginal weight of his mass. Hoping against hope she might feel his own heartbeat or breathing. So sometimes she’d have to look down to make sure he was still there. They had no words to say, they only lay together—he on her—and looked at each other or looked away, and sometimes began to doze. His little body would go so still, or she’d stare at him and say something and he’d climb around and they’d get up and go make something to eat and go out to the car, and her whole body would jerk and she was still lying in bed with him stretched around the inner curve of her boob. They really had to go to sleep at some point, she knew, but she didn’t want to. She just wanted to stare at him, touch him, play with him, do things with him, to him, despite him.

And then there was some hour near the middle of the night when something shifted. It was like they’d sufficiently recharged their batteries after a sequence of teasing little naps, and then they were very awake. Not hypercharged with a lot of energy, just … very aware of each other, very aware of where they were in this room and what time it was.

Wordlessly the little man pushed himself up to his knees and sat up, then rose to his knees. The shadowy side of his body away from the lamp wasn’t even that dark, when the light bounced of her skin too. His expression was so serious, as though he had an important question to ask.

She knew exactly what it was, too. Her pulse picked up the pace, slowly, and she noted how his tiny body vibrated with each pound of her heart. She too felt very profound right now, like all the air had slipped from her lungs and they were at a crossroads of possibility. His expression was so … he made her feel like a goddess. He had before, in different ways, but there was this look he could shape his face into, that made his whole body scream with reverence. That was the perfect word, reverence. He knelt on holy ground, he stared into eternity, and rather than questioning his worth he only exuded gratitude and reverence for her. It was a deeper respect than she’d ever felt in her life, for any reason. It had to be because of his size, because she didn’t feel she’d done anything exceptional to deserve this kind of admiration. She—

He rose quietly. He was getting better at balancing on her body, as long as she held relatively still. What was he doing?

She knew what he was doing. Somehow, she knew.

She tilted her hips. Lowered the small of her back, drew up her knees, and slowly, slightly spread her thighs. The only answer to his only question.

The tiny man turned and picked his way down, through the valley of her breasts, down an imperceptible trail of fine, glassy hairs to the gentle swell of her belly. She found it almost impossible to hold still for him: even if his weight didn’t press into her, his feet still felt like a lover brushing a feather over her skin. Her abs rippled with oversensitivity, but he balanced, anticipated, and recovered. The way he stepped over her navel made her feel huge again, but it was also erotic in a way she had difficulty processing. He continued on to where the fine hairs became course, small hairs extended in length, translucence was replaced with dark and glossy and crinkly. There he turned again, facing her, kneeling once more, grabbing two tiny fistfuls of hair before … oh, God, lowering himself between her legs. That serious expression, that huge-eyed reverence, even as his knees pressed lightly into her mons and slid down her labia. His hips disappeared behind her thicket, and his belly and chest went away, and that serious, reverent face sank like the sun beyond her pubes.

Layton was on fire. She was going to have a heart attack. No way this was happening. She wanted to crush him between her legs; she absolutely didn’t want to move, she couldn’t even come close to thinking about hurting him, her precious little man, oh God, what was he doing?

His body, his little body was always so hot. She knew he had hair on him, patches of shadow when he exposed himself to her, but she couldn’t feel anything but this hot wad of silk sliding over her clit. His little fists, tugging her pubes, they stung only a little, only sometimes, and what was he doing with his body? It felt like he was rolling himself over her clit, rubbing his chest against her throbbing little nub, oh God, she could just see it, too. The look of determination on his handsome features, his little shoulders flexing under that exquisite skin, maybe he even bit his lip with the effort of grinding his pecs against her clit.

“Motherfucker,” she whispered into the cavern of her bedroom. The back of her head dug into her pillows and her fists knotted up the bed sheets, and her hips rolled, yes, but only slightly, only the incidental rocking of each glute tensing and flexing beneath her hips. At most he might only feel as though he were on a boat on calm waters, swaying, bobbing not much at all. His chest continued to grind into her clit, not much weight to him, but he tugged on her hairs and pulled himself into her, and the prickly sting of those follicles slowly transformed into a welcome, enticing bite that sent sparks up her belly and an inexplicable prickliness in her armpits. Bodies were weird.

Then his legs draped and slid over her labia. His knees scraped over her curly hairs on the thick slabs of her labia majora, almost like he was trying to climb her, or else use his knees as surrogate fingertips on a much larger person, digging into her skin, yes, that had to be it, the way he dug and shifted and ground into her. Bless him, he was trying to rub her lips, and then one of his legs slipped and there was nothing to stop it from slurping right into the drenched, searing, porcelain petals of her inner labia.

Oh, holy FUCK. Her calves bunched, her inner thighs tensed, one foot went up and the other went down, her legs nearly closed around him. Layton whimpered miserably, ecstatically, shocked at the simple gesture of one thin, spindly leg getting lost in her folds and GODDAMNIT wanting more, more, so much more. Her breasts bounced as she laugh-sobbed, wanting to drink in every single second of this moment but also wanting to race to the end and erupt in the culmination of weeks of holding back.

The pinpricks of her tugged pubes went away. He was no longer gripping her hairs to rappel down her cunt. What was it, then? What was he using to get around down there?

No. No. Layton’s pupils blew huge and her jaw dropped, gaping, as two sets of fine little fingers slid over, slid again, and then clenched the folds of her pussy. No fucking way. Her inhale lurched in stages, a sequence of quick, eager, unstable gasps and her hips tilted further, lifting him, begging for more. You’re there, little man, take all of me, her hips begged. She felt the trickle of liquid wend through her perineum and make its way by centimeters down the curve of her left ass cheek. Her eyes screwed shut and she sucked on her lips as her head rolled from side to side. If that little man only knew what kind of danger he was in right now, he’d quit fucking around and … what? What could he do to end this torment? She knew, there was one thing and she knew it, but something blocked her from thinking about it fully.

Too small, too helpless, too precious. One-of-a-kind. Irreplaceable. But her need, her fucking need.

She realized he’d stopped moving. He’d latched onto her folds and she couldn’t feel his slight weight shifting anywhere. His chest didn’t rub into her, even his leg was still or he’d pulled it out. Was he okay? Why wasn’t he doing anything, what happened?

Nope, there he was. A trickle as hot as urine or blood ran down the side of her labia majora. No, up. He’d started down, then started licking up her folds with his minuscule, flickering flame of a tongue. Oh, holy fuck. She could feel it make its way along her skin, not puncturing like a tattoo needle but with all of the heat, very localized and trickling up her pussy in reverse. She could just see him, eyes closed, jaw open as wide as it could go, and his little tongue flickering and dragging and lapping at her skin. What was there to … oh, right, she was fucking gushing. He was tasting her. Was he drinking her? Her eyes went huge, staring up at the ceiling. He could consume her, there would be enough. Would he do that? Was that disgusting? Holy fuck, she wanted to see him drinking her, the expression on his face.

His handhold shifted, pinching another fold of her inner labia. His other hand released entirely—his light little body rested against her moist labia, and his arm descended into her searing depths. She could feel it, small as it was. She could feel his limb descend inside her, slipping between the rose petals of her folds, sinking in … up to his elbow? to his shoulder? Oh, God, she wanted to see what it looked like, this tiny person jamming himself into her as far as he could reach.

There was a dull nudge at the top of it, below her clit but above where his body was resting. A dull, thick nudge like someone’s pinky tip. Nothing on him could do that, except … Layton strained to peer over her own hairy mons, but he was in too deep. She couldn’t see what she knew, his head mashing into her slit, his beautiful face nuzzling into her sopping, burning folds, the gasp of ecstasy as he briefly came up for air before driving his face into her labia minora again. She whimpered and swore and giggled and whined, her thighs churned briefly like she was cycling, then resumed their conscientious stillness and space. Goddamn, it was taking everything she had not to grab him and shove him in there, consequences be damned.

No, this was her time to be disciplined. She was his goddess, and she was receiving his worship. Yes, that’s how it was. She closed her eyes and drew a long, cleansing breath, and she spread her arms out on the bed and flattened her hands upon the sheets, and she arranged her whole self symmetrically, the echo of her self-discipline, spreading her legs kindly for him, planting her feet flat upon the mattress, and controlling her breathing as she felt every little thing he was doing, enabling everything he could imagine.

His hands, carefully and worshipfully, ran around her thick outer labia, swollen and hot with need. His tiny fists kneaded into them, driving in at points, up and down, testing their pliancy, working in some small way to relieve her tension. Then his fingers, like tiny fins, swam in and out of her labia minora, celebrating the small, gentle curves, their pliancy, how fucking wet she could get. Absolutely frictionless. He mashed his bare chest into her pussy, rubbing it back and forth, getting himself nice and slathered in her copious, endless juices. He wore her proudly, even jealously, covering himself in her as though her product were a prized souvenir, a raiment of status. He was the traveler in an exotic new world, the pilgrim on a religious journey dedicated to her. Everything he did was profound, every action was measured and spoke of respect and desire, giving as much as he received.

They had another moment. After squirming against her and swimming just shy of her entrance, there was a pause that felt significant. Layton tilted her head as though she could hear the momentous event, looking off in whatever direction could amplify her tactile sensitivity.

And there it was: a hot little sting, down at the lowest part of her cunt, the last loop of taut flesh before the perineum began. Right at the base of her entrance. A hot, deliberate little kiss, basically at the entrance to her pussy.

Her hairs tugged and stung. She looked down quickly, caught that tiny little head of dark hair emerging over her furry thatch. His cheek glistened in the lamp light. He was smiling.

He was smiling, huge and shy. His little eyes were smiling, with just the hint of a question.

Layton knew: He wants to know what I like.

His head never went away as his hips ground into her clit—his hard cock had to be in there somewhere, she couldn’t feel it—and his legs cycled, dipping in and out of her tissues, swimming among her pink and frothing folds. His expression bobbed slightly as he strained to use the rest of his body to please her. Oh, how she wanted to caress his back, something to let him know how much she appreciated his effort, but holy fuck, she needed to come soon.

Then his head disappeared again, and she felt that teasing, tantalizing little tongue dancing around her clit. She cried out throatily as it ran up her sides with just the graze of tiny little teeth. He nuzzled into her there, burying his face where the hood formed and overtook it, and he licked it all clean, fucking hell, she could feel almost every little stroke of his tongue. His chest bore steadily into the upper arch of her slit, and his legs danced just outside her entrance—and her cunt clenched and quivered, probably would’ve broken one of his legs if he’d slipped inside. She would have tried to, she knew. He needed to learn the consequence of what he was doing, acting so deliciously and so fucking slowly, with a big girl like her. Proud, he was. Didn’t know his limits.

He really didn’t. The tiny man hung on her pussy, elbows-deep in her folds, just using the press of her tissues to hold his light little body in place. He rested his forehead against her clit, as though he were exhausted, confiding in an intimate companion, and he breathed, “I want to be here.”

Layton held her breath. He was there. What did this—

“When you come.” Quieter, no less powerful.

She would not move a muscle. She couldn’t, her body was paralyzed, waiting for him.

“I want … to feel your body take me.”

This alone nearly broke her. Holy fuck.

Unable to speak, she suffered the deep shiver up and down her inner thighs, tightening at her crotch, pulsing around him. He had to feel that. She grunted, strained to breathe in that moment, squeezing out a moan as her heels dug into the mattress, left, right, high thread-count carrying her callused heels along. Her abs clenched, anticipating the orchestration of muscle that would seize her pussy up and crush him into pieces. She would, too, this little fucker, saying something like that after she’s been holding back for so long.

What was she supposed to do? She couldn’t grab him, not knowing for certain how strong his bones were. She couldn’t just rub herself while he watched: she wanted him to do it. She wanted to feel him, feel his exertion, feel him working in her most wonderful spot.

Stall. Surrender.

“Then keep going,” she growled softly.

Fuck if he didn’t.

His tiny hands were everywhere, groping and stroking and clawing at her tenderness. His mouth was relentless, like he’d been starving for a month and only had her to feast on, licking, slurping, nuzzling like a pig in its trough. Everything he did was selfish, and everything he did was for her. He wanted to learn more about her, he wanted to know everything. And he wanted her to feel it, to want it, to feel like he was giving something to her rather than taking something away. The difference between a boy and a man, according to some French movie she watched in college. That wasn’t right, though, it was actually—and he started biting her pussy, tiny little sets of jaws on her petals, tugging and gnawing, not to sever but to mark her. Mark her! This little fucker was marking the goddess with his name! Graffiti in the Great Pyramid! How dare he!

Layton loved that he did, audacious little fucker. Take those liberties, see where it gets you. She indulged in grinding her ass into the mattress, rolling her hips, thigh shifting against succulent thigh as she let her body fall into a sinuous rotation. Not only did the tiny man make her feel huge and powerful, he made her feel beautiful. She admired her own thighs, smooth and amber in the lamp light, rising and falling beside each other in turns as she only barely refrained from mashing him into jelly between her thighs. He must be swimming in her juices, now, she felt the steady flow of her own lubrication coursing down the lowest tuck of her buttocks before staining the sheets. Oh, her bed would be sopping tonight, by the time they ever got to sleep.

He went on, oblivious to everything going around him. Her colossal thighs that could have mashed him into paste, he ignored them. The hips that rolled, grinding, carrying him like a sailor on turbulent seas, that meant nothing to him. He clung to her, his ground, his ship, his earth, that was all. He wrapped his fists in her hair and her flesh, and he consumed her, bit her, drank her. She felt it all, his teeth and his tongue, his relentless hunger, and the incidental grind of his little body against the entrance to her own hungry pussy, the dangle of his feet closer and closer to her butthole.

She was lost in this and didn’t pay attention when it overtook her. His attention, his caresses, his basic greed built up a monument of lust in her, one that couldn’t stand. It hit her, it struck her unawares. Abruptly all the muscles pulled tight, all her skin strained and went taut, and her eyes clamped shut and her throat opened wider than usual to groan and howl in a graceless fashion. Her hips bucked, bucked again, her ass bounced on the bed. She could feel the pinpricks of her pubic hair being jerked as the nearly weightless little guy rode her pussy like a bronco. And she did not hold back! There was no consideration or caution, she let herself feel all of it, everything he’d been building up. He had to know what he was getting himself into. Her fists pounded the mattress, springing away and pounding again, and her keening cry filled the empty house. Thank God her father was out, because she just opened the fuck up and let all the energy in her pussy stampede up her body, through her lungs, and out into the furthest reaches of her cavernous bedroom. She called him things, she called to deities, she pleaded and begged, and his little body never flagged for a second. He rode her, he did, gripping her and giving himself right back to her inflamed labia, making sure she knew he was there, he was real, he existed. Her whole body shuddered with muscles overwhelmed by sensation, violent shudders that would’ve shook off a lesser man.

Her little man never gave up. He rode her, he pressed himself to her. He was there through it all, just like he wanted.

She lay there, stunned and breathless, for a few minutes before she could command one arm to slip between her thighs and gather him up. He was fucking drenched. He was glazed like a doughnut. Alarmed, she thumbed his lower face clear in case, yes, her own pussy juices prevented him from breathing. Slowly she lifted him from her pussy, and he drifted like a cloud over her belly, over her full and ripe breasts, over her spasming throat as she strained to feed her body enough oxygen. A thumb on his chest and two fingertips on his spine held him aloft over her gaping mouth.

“You,” she whispered dryly, “just went where no one else has ever gone.”

He had no reaction. The tiny man—her tiny man—hung limply in her pinch like so much spaghetti. But his eyes remained trained upon her face, studying the pinkness of her cheeks, the swell of her lips, and what her eyelids were doing, post-orgasm.

Vulnerable. Naked. Thin and small and weak. He said, “I know.”

Layton’s heart blossomed in an intense and wildfire love for this little fucker. She didn’t know if she’d ever have the words to make him really, really understand that. She could only bite her fat bottom lip, shake her massive head in a quiet warning, and give him the flying tour back down her body to where she mashed him against her pussy. She nestled the warm, giving mass between her thick lips, nudged him in there nice and secure, and patted him gently to solidify the night’s arrangement.

There he slept, almost immediately and well before she did. Embedded in her labia, glued in place with her juices, and with the thick, warm blanket of her fingers draped over his entire self. He knocked off so quickly and completely, it was like he’d been on a long journey but finally found himself home.

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Photo by Haley Truong on Unsplash