Aborigen

The next night went a lot like the night before, as did the night after. They practiced, gently and slowly, getting to know each other’s capabilities and desires. They learned they were fairly compatible, as far as tastes went.

Layton lay in bed, overheating, stretching a stiff joint or bunched muscle. The tiny man rode her labored breathing while she forced herself to calm down. He cradled between her breasts once more, slick with her juices, redolent with her scent. She touched one gentle fingertip to his chest to feel his heart thrumming away.

She could say he looked content, but it was more like he radiated it. He glowed with it, feeling comfortable, completely at ease. The spectral opposite of the huddled little refugee in the corner of the metal box, crouched as far as the confines would allow, eyes bright with alarm. She ran her fingertip down his side, nudging his hip, making him rock gently; his grin was so quiet she almost didn’t pick up on it.

What was this peace he had? Her brow wrinkled as she tried to riddle this one out. He looked confident, without any fret or worry, and something extra. There was a lift to his shoulders, maybe, and we’re talking a difference of less than millimeters, and a lift to his chin. Her mind connected this to a shopping trip a couple months ago, she’d happened to find a pair of jeans that went with her boots. In the mirror she looked both elementally rugged and fluid, like a river between the mountains. She liked it, but it was the guy at the pizza booth who apologized because he forgot her order, who had been clearly and baldly staring at her. Not like she was a piece of meat, but more like she was one of the amazing sunsets in their area, something artistically right.

She strained to peer down at her little guy. Sure, there was something like that to him, now. It wasn’t just being made to feel attractive—it was belonging. She wanted him, and he felt wanted. That was it, the knowledge that someone sees you and wants you. He was glowing with it.

With a soft, fitful moan, she kissed the tip of her finger and rubbed it into his dark hair, then trailed her fingernail down his chest and shivery little belly. “What the hell is your name, anyway?”

He laughed. “Rubin.”

“Rubin.” She rolled his name around, quieter and quieter. After all these weeks, finally, a cute little name for a cute little guy. “Rubin. I want to do something, Rubin,” and his laughter gave her to suppose that her voice rumbled through her chest and his little body like construction equipment growling past a shack on the roadside.

“I want to make you feel … like you’ve made me feel.”

The silence was natural and appropriate. They both basked her phrasing, thinking about where it might go. His tiny head dug into her breastbone as he looked backward at her. “You already do.”

She simpered and rubbed his belly. Perhaps they weren’t completely psychically linked after all. “Not yet. But I will.” He rose with her long inhale, and he rocked as she shouldered her way back into the pillows, propping up her head. The hand that tickled him went away; her other hand hung over him, her fingers brushed him onto her thumb, and she pinched him carefully and lifted him up to her face. He stared at her as blankly as any housecat, ready for anything that came next, neither terrified nor overeager. Completely at ease.

Her hand tilted and rolled him into her palm, couching him in tender, warm flesh. Now she could stare at him, this Rubin of hers, the thin, long shadows running down his thighs, the tiny hollows of tiny collarbones, how his toes twitched as he tried to pop a knuckle. Staring up at her with more than trust, so much more than arousal. It was that devotion again, feeling wanted and welcome, and the bone-deep knowledge that he belonged with her.

Her lips were slightly sticky. “Will you trust me?”

Rubin blinked a couple times, then propped himself up on his elbows. He studied her for a minute and, inevitably, nodded. “I want you to have me.”

Layton gasped. She thought she was in control, huge and powerful, cupping this little fucker in her mere hand, and then he says something like that and she goes all gooey. Her surprised breath blew the stray locks out of his eyes; she turned it into a longer, heavier, wetter panting, slowly bring him closer to her mouth. “Good boy.”

She drew him too close to focus on, pursed her lips, and pressed him into them. She pulled him into her, rather than pressing a kiss into his little body. Her thick, hot lips pulsed over his chest, bunching up under his chin, and she worked her way down. She didn’t lift-and-kiss, no, she smeared her kiss down his body. Her lips dragged, his skin caught and tugged, as she slid her kiss over his abs. They pulsed there, too, where none of his fine bones were, with just the tip of her tongue. She wondered if they could neatly fit one of her taste buds into his navel.

Lower, then, both lips pinching the lean meat of one of his thighs. His leg was so small, like a pretzel stick, and she was so meticulous in working her mouth around it, grasping him. Her nostrils gusted hot air over his little body, and she was completely unmindful of this. She only focused on the soft meat that shifted slightly as her lips tried to clamp onto his little leg.

When the tip of her tongue poked out again to rub between his thighs, the discovery of his erection flooded her with simmering fluids, thick and savory. Already hard. He made a little noise, and his hips nudged into her lips.

She only permitted the corners of her lips to show any kind of grin. Her kiss remained in place, migrating over his cock, her taste buds helping to pull it inside. “Sensitive,” she whispered, bathing him in her breath and he cried out again. Her tongue teased along the slight jut of his hip bones, painting him thinly in her saliva. He did not know what to do with himself: he braced against her upper lip, pounded his tiny fists against her palm, and tried to grab the wet, living muscle of her tongue.

With one short, brief stroke, she laid his cock flat on his belly and lapped it up. Her mouth was open then, letting him stare into her oral cavern as her taste buds ran up from his balls to the head of his penis. His helpless moan echoed in her mouth.

“You don’t have to …” The offer was inexplicable. Both of them were in competition for how much they wanted this.

Now her lips came together again and descended, wrapping around his foolish head, burying his face deep within the sphincter of her kiss. She held him there, pressed him against her palm, hummed quietly—a kiss like this was as close as she could come to hugging him.

With a gasp her lips parted and her tongue unfurled once more to drag over his balls before nudging his erection back and forth, lifting it. He stared in awe as it actually adhered to the tip of her tongue, pasted in her spit, couched in her taste buds. “Oh gods, lady—”

She purred at his helplessness. “Yes?” Drawing back, she gave Rubin a warm grin before opening up, flaring her tongue wide, and slowly dragging the bedding of her muscle over his entire tiny body, from his little feet, up his legs, covering his torso, and bathing his head in her lust. She could feel his little body quivering beneath her meat, bucking and grinding.

At that, her tongue swiped to the side and stuffed under his knees, more or less gently lifting his legs between her lips. He cried out as his feet disappeared into her kiss, the first time she ran her taste buds over his soles. Her lips pushed out, the suction increased, and his lower body simply slurped into her mouth, until his perfect little ass bumped against her bottom lip. Layton released a dangerously loud moan at this point, and her tongue swam between his legs, painting them as she sucked at his spindly frame. Whatever coated his skin broke down now, traces of her saliva and his own natural salts, and she rubbed these clean with her rasping tongue. He wailed, gasping through the intense sensation, and she was so, so satisfied to feel him thrash, pounding at her lip and completely unraveling.

“You’re close already,” she murmured between licks. Her happiness was like the orange glow of the wildfire sunset. “I’m glad. Rubin. Because I want to feel you come in my mouth.”

Between them, there was no question of her intent; the words were superfluous. Layton was tantalizing him almost beyond his little body’s capacity to withstand it. With the tenderest little slurp, her lips puckered and tensed and drew him inside up to his armpits. More of his delicious little body filled her mouth—“filled” being quite an embellishment—and her tongue ravished him. She tasted his abs, strong and twitching beneath her caress. She bedded his spine and pelvis on her tongue, wrapping it partially around him and rolling his legs gently against her palate. She let his legs fall, felt them cycling in her saliva, kicking against her tongue and backing off immediately, apologetically, then doing it again. She wondered if he could see her grinning around his little body, smirking as the tip of her tongue inevitably found and toyed with his bouncy little erection, shoving it around and rubbing into it with the blunt muscle, or if he could only stare helplessly up her nose.

“Layton,” he cried, “I can’t—!”

She’d never told him her name. She was awfully absent-minded, only asking his name after all this time and never introducing herself. He must’ve overheard her conversation with her father, maybe a phone call. Whatever. Whatever! She clenched her eyes and focused her sensitivity to pick up on every aspect of the squirming, thrashing body she held locked between her lips. She nestled her head back into the pillows, slipped one hand between her thighs, and gave him one more hard suck. He went in no further, her incisors gently braced against his lower ribs to hold him steady as she only sucked on his lower half.

His body bowed with the force of his climax. Tiny fingers clawed at her lip. His legs tried to pinch her tongue into place, holding her fast as he shook, hard, so hard she wondered if it were painful. She hummed quietly now, the depth of her voice carrying him along on waves of pure sound as his legs bucked and his spine flexed and curled. He was coming completely undone.

She never relented for a second, either. She needed to feel his graceful, elfin little body lose control like this. She wanted to hold him in her mouth, get as close to his orgasm as she could, contain it within herself. Her hand cupped her vulva tenderly at the moment his release flowed between her taste buds; she nudged his cock and he groaned with oversensitivity.

When at last he began to go limp, Layton’s tongue gently guided him out of her mouth, and she caught him in her palm once more, turning him slightly to cradle him against her cheek, another form of the full-bodied hug. She hummed to herself, rubbing him slowly into her face.

“Look at you,” she whispered. “You came so hard for me.”

Rubin hardly had any energy to respond or react. He may have reached one arm out to caress her cheek, it was hard to tell. But he definitely trembled, and she definitely detected that.

“You are … so perfect when you surrender.” She brought him around for another kiss, a long, soft one that pinned him in place, before depositing him once again between her breasts. “Sleep now, little one,” she murmured, caressing his spine with her fingertip. Blearily he blinked at her, unable to speak, his face a question.

“Because tomorrow, we start all over again.”