Aborigen

“Are you scared?”

Her voice drove through him like the ghost of a shipping vehicle. He could only yelp in fright, immediately covering his mouth when the only available air to breathe was her exhaust.

“Don’t be. I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.” Those red, purplish-red lips spread in a grin too wide, revealing smooth, glowing slabs of clean bone. “You have no reason to believe me, I know, but you’ll see. I promise I won’t hurt you.” The lips canted at an angle as the gigantic head tilted, a gesture meant for size-peer relationships, entirely lost upon a tiny little morsel of a man. “In fact, I love you. You’ll see that too. You are so precious to me, you can’t begin to imagine. But for now, please, try to calm down and trust that I love you. Trust that you’ll be okay, and try to enjoy this.”

Love? Did he hear her right? Did these gigantic, flapping, bobbing lips actually pronounce love? That single, four-letter word coming from this cavernous mouth might have been scarier than if those long, shiny teeth had simply reached out and bitten him in half. What did she mean by love? What did it mean to be loved by a woman so large, so immense, he could only see her lips? A mouth larger than he was, a murky and humid cavern with a rolling bed of tongue, lined with perilously sharp and brutally strong teeth. What kind of love could she have in mind?

He went slightly dizzy. His mind tried to grapple with the image of the woman’s lips, a once-familiar body part blown up into huge proportions. Far overhead, her nostrils flared slightly as she grinned, snorting on him with a stifled laugh. He flinched, throwing up his arms to shield his face from the gust of snotty air. At his gesture she gasped, her smile instantly retracting into a huge O. It was a reflex of concern for her, part of his mind recognized that, but it was too much. It was a vast, puckered ring that opened into an abyss of darkness, one he could fall into. His knees gave out, and his heart nearly stopped with the realization that he couldn’t support himself on this little ledge, that he would tumble right off like a sack of potatoes, and the floor was so very far away.

Giantess to the rescue. The deeply wrinkled ring of lips sealed shut and pinned him to the wall, catching him at an odd angle. The papered drywall pressed against his back, slowly warming up with his body, then overheating with her lips. One foot lay upon the trim, his other leg dangled over it. His arms reflexively braced against the giant woman’s skin, or maybe they vainly tried to hold her back, a primal reflex to keep from being eaten. Between his slim fingers, the nearly translucent hairs of a feminine mustache bent, sprang, and poked. His palm lay next to her philtrum, the groove running down from between her nostrils. It could have rested in her philtrum, cupped on all sides as if he’d placed it in a mixing bowl.

He realized how tense his chest had become, and he forced himself to inhale, immediately waiting until the giant lady was done exhaling upon him. When the air was clear and cold, he stuffed his chest full of it and held it. All the tiny muscles around his ribs complained, tense with fright, compressed into place by the huge upper lip that covered his chest, shoulders, arms and neck. But he forced his body to take in the oxygen, he forced it. He forced himself to calm down, forced himself to acknowledge that he wasn’t falling and wasn’t about to. The giant lady had pinned him into place with a kiss. She said she loved him, after all, though he wasn’t sure how he felt about having a kiss irresistibly forced upon him.

“Are you okay?” she asked him. She kept her voice quiet and breathy, but without full range of her lip movement it came out as “rrr ’ou oh-gay?”

He nodded, and almost immediately realized she had no way of seeing or even feeling that. He shouted up to her that he was fine, though he suspected his voice died inside her nostrils.

The huge lips throbbed once against his body. When the pressure upon his chest (such a tiny chest, he realized, so many fine and fragile bones) began to abate, he pressed both hands against her upper lip for stability and scrambled to find his footing. She pulled back only when he was standing upright. Why did she put him on the wall trim like this? Why not a table? Why not the palm of her hand? The thought of that, however, nearly made him pass out again. Having to deal with that cavernous maw while being surrounded by the meaty pillars of her fingers was too much.

“I told you, I’ve got you.” Warm breath, humid and sweet with decay, and low tones that resonated through his body. “I’ll protect you. Nothing’s going to hurt you, now that I have you. Okay?”

Did she just say she owned him? He wished he could see more of her than just her lips. It was surreal, only being allowed access to one part of her body. He assumed there was more, of course, though how much more sense did a colossal giantess make than disembodied, floating lips? He closed his eyes and pressed himself flat against the wall, wishing desperately to wake up.

“Oh, my sweet little man,” she murmured. There was plenty of warmth in that voice. Her tone dropped and creaked, as though her passion constricted all the muscles along her throat. And he hated that he could imagine the throat beyond her moist, flexing cavern of a mouth. He hated that his mind’s eye sailed right over that writhing, glistening, gummy tongue and between the theatrical curtains flanking the opening of her throat.

The giantess’s breathing sounded labored. It seemed to be quicker, too, sucking the wind and breathing it out to increased tempo. What did that mean? He wished he could see the rest of her, just for more information, just to help him understand. She kept calling him her little man and breathing harder. It was almost as if…

She smiled at him, her head slightly tilted in the other direction. The upper row of teeth showed now, evenly shaped and symmetrical: large tooth, smaller tooth, pointy tooth, on and on behind her lip. She smiled, saying nothing, waiting for something. For what?

Her teeth were almost perfectly white, a little yellowed just under the gums, and a little ghostly transparent around the severing edges of the incisors. A jagged line of light splayed across one small tooth, less like a bolt of lightning and more like an exciting beam of neon. In the broad panel just in front of him, he noticed a crack. The ambient light glowed in her enamel, and he saw a seam running from top to bottom. He wondered if it hurt, and he wondered if he could repair it, if his special position as a tiny person to this gigantic person gave him the ability to seal up that hairline fracture.

He wondered why he cared. He’d sooner pitch himself over the narrow ledge than put his hands inside this gigantic madwoman’s mouth.

“You make me so happy,” she said. “Do you know that? You do, you beautiful little man.”

Her upper lip dimpled and peaked in the center, and her lower lip was full and round. The cupid’s bow, he recalled from some Victorian novel. Dickens? When would he have read that? Yet when he saw the shape of her lips, the phrase was inexorable. It was a striking effect, for that matter. It was even pretty. Yes, it was lovely, despite the gross size. He wanted to… His hands lifted and froze in the air before his chest, maybe two feet away from her upper lip.

“Oh, yes? Is there something you’d like? Please, ask me anything. I’d do anything for you!” The giantess’s lips parted and held, trembling in anticipation, a sequence of micromuscles that reacted beyond conscious thought. A section of her upper lip reared; the middle of her lower lip pushed out, retracted; the corners of her lips pinched and tugged. She appeared to be struggling for something to say, thoughts rushing through her head all at once, sentences vying for domination.

The expressive volumes of her lips impressed him. He had no access to any other part of this gigantic woman, only the underside of her inky-black nostrils, planes of cheek and glimpses of jawline: the peripheral suggestions framing the huge mouth. And yet he could read so much of her in them, when they wanted to smile but held back, when they gasped and widened unconsciously. Even when she spoke, watching them dance and slap against each other, drawing close without making contact, sealing shut and peeling apart from the center outward, there was a lot to read in that. After several minutes in his position, he became aware of a new understanding, a new form of communication transmitted entirely through her lips. All thought of altitude and weakness of knees left his mind as the pupils of his eyes widened to take in this new world of information.

“You’re staring at me,” she whispered, and the corners of her mouth tugged up sharply in a bright grin. “Do you see something you like?” The thick lips collapsed shut, waiting. Fine wrinkles in the upper lip drew in radially to the epicenter of her mouth, like gothic architecture drawing the eyes to the focal point of the artwork. Below her fat bottom lip, the flesh bulged and immediately receded to the valley above her chin. She had a mole, a tan disc to the upper right of her mouth. Beauty mark, his random Victorian vocabulary informed him.

He followed the lines, the fine hairs and pores, into the bedding of her thick, red lips. Her breath flowed over him from above, yet he barely noticed. His eyes were running over the ridges of her lips, narrow and bulbous like orange pulp in the upper lip, thicker and fatter like a stuffed leather couch on the lower lip. It looked comfortable, honestly. Luxurious. The upper lip was naturally puckered like someone steeping too long in the bath, and adorable for that. He didn’t notice his fingers twitching, where his arms hung at his sides, as though they wanted to slide down the ridges, see whether they were coated in wax and dye or were naturally moisturized, like…

He surprised himself. Like the hot pink folds of a lady’s vulva. Was that accurate? Did nature simply borrow its best components and repeat them where applicable? Tree roots looked like bare tree branches in winter, and they both looked like the dendritic trees of the brain’s neural pathways or the arteries and veins laced within fingers and toes and all around the heart. Even a clever close-up photo of chest cleavage could be indistinguishable from a butt crack, if staged correctly. Slowly his hands floated away from his hips and drifted toward the perfect cupid’s bow, broad and crimson, twitching before him.

“Please,” the giantess whispered. The urgency of this one word impaled him, and there was nothing else he could do.

Her immense lips parted slightly, as plaintive a plea as his own hanging jaw and outstretched arms. Beyond the cushioning lips, her lower incisors suggested themselves in shadow, and the nubbly tip of her tongue slithered over them and immediately retreated.

His heart was pounding. His eyes fell into the ridges and wrinkles, and were mired in their color. His palms got there first, resting gingerly upon her lower lip, tentatively, as though they carried an electric current. This was ridiculous, of course, and their natural moisture and plush texture were nothing but inviting. His head grew dizzy with his hammering pulse.

“Please. Oh, please.”

Nodding far below her sight, he stepped forward, then immediately jerked his foot back from the empty space. His arms stiffened and braced, holding him against the wall: the giantess wasn’t far enough to be dangerous, but it seemed she wouldn’t come any closer.

He stood there, panting, and glanced at the chasm beyond the gentle curve of her chin. There was nothing for him there, and his head snapped back up to her lips. So full, rippling with texture, plump with love… yes, love. He finally understood. Real love.

His shoulders flexed, gently pushing his body away from the wall. Feet planted firmly upon the ledge, they formed the vertex from which his body subtly swung. Now his hands supported most of his weight, as he leaned into her mouth. His palms made tiny little dents in her flesh, and the fissures around them flattened and stretched beneath his scant weight. Scant, but enough to dimple her fat bottom lip.

He could feel please, please thrumming from her skull. A massive skull he could’ve moved into like a studio apartment, enrobed in myriad muscles and layers of tissue and flesh. A miracle of design, all orchestrated to conspire as one immense, beautiful head, a lovely face that pinned him against an incomprehensibly large wall. A beautiful, broad face, only the lips of which he was granted audience to, lips that trembled and pulsed mere inches away from him.

Slowly, eyes peeled open in disbelief at his own actions, he leaned in to where the woman’s lips parted. Her breath ruffled his hair, sucked it in, blew it back. He was so close, his entire body screamed with the instinct to kiss this woman, failing to acknowledge her vastness. How would it work? If she kissed him, she could pinch his neck, she could clamp and seal around his waist. Would she even notice…

Weaving, delirious, he only watched as her full lip grew larger and blurry, as he dipped his head reverently into it. He puckered his own meager lips and planted them upon the couch-like cushion of her lip, and his primal instincts took over and he mashed his face into her lip. The tissues swelled around him, covering his ears, even as they gave beneath his pressure and took him within. The blood that zipped through dozens of tiny vessels in her lips radiated new, feminine warmth into his head. He could feel, he thought, her femininity in this flavor of body heat. Was that crazy? Was it possible?

He whimpered, once, twice into her fat lip. His body began to twitch with intense and all-consuming longing to connect and commune with this giantess. His body leaned into her, further than was safe, past the point of return. He pressed himself into her lips, greedy, pleading.

She whimpered too, gusting over the back of his head and down his neck, as her lips parted once more.

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Inspired by Undersquid’s illustration.