Chapter 3: The Taste Test
The leather of the couch sighed beneath Mia’s enormous ass as she settled into its familiar valley, a glass of merlot catching the late afternoon light in her hand. The silence in the apartment was different now. It wasn’t empty. It was focused, anticipatory, humming with the unspoken reality that occupied the space between the couch and the coffee table.
Ron stood on the rug, his world having become a terrain of dense, woolen hills. The coffee table’s edge loomed above him, a smooth, impassable cliff of oak. Two feet tall. That was the latest measurement, taken that morning with a chilling, digital precision. He was half the height he’d been a week ago. The drop to the table’s surface was negligible to Mia. To him, it was a leap he had to calculate.
“You gonna make it up there, baby?” Mia’s voice was a warm, amused rumble from the highlands of the couch. She took a sip of wine, watching him over the rim of her glass.
“It’s a matter of applied physics,” Ron said, his voice tighter than he intended. He backed up a few paces on the rug, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. It wasn’t just the jump. It was performing it under her gaze. His audience of one. He ran, his small legs pumping, and launched himself at the leg of the table.
His fingers scraped the carved wood, caught, slipped. He dropped back to the rug, the impact jolting through his ankles. A faint puff of dust rose around him.
“Physics my ass,” Mia chuckled. “You looked like a squirrel trying to burgle a bird feeder.”
Ron glared up at her, a fiery retort on his lips, but it died. She was magnificent from this angle. A goddess sprawling on a leather mountain. The sheer curtain-light haloed her red hair, glinted off the moisture on her lower lip. Her sweater stretched over the prodigious swell of her breasts, and her bare feet, propped on the edge of the rug, were as long as his entire torso. The sight struck him with a dual bolt of humiliation and a deep, unsettling arousal.
He turned back to the table leg, gritting his teeth. He would not be pathetic. He jumped again, scrambling, finding a slightly better grip. He hauled himself up, muscles burning, until he could hook an elbow over the top. He dangled, kicking, then swung a leg up and over. He rolled onto the vast, flat plain of the tabletop, chest heaving.
A slow clap echoed. Mia was putting her glass down. “Bravo. Took you three minutes to climb what I could step over without thinking.”
“Not all of us can be giants,” he panted, sitting up.
Her expression shifted. The amusement faded, replaced by something darker, more absorbed. Her eyes traveled the length of his body, sprawled and vulnerable on the open surface. “No,” she said quietly. “You certainly can’t.”
She moved then, not with her whole body, but with a deliberate, lazy grace. She leaned forward from the couch, her arm snaking out. Before he could register her intent, her hand was there. Not to help him up. Her index finger, impossibly large, smooth and cool, slid underneath him, between his legs, hooking firmly beneath the curve of his ass. She lifted.
The world upended. He was suspended in mid-air, held aloft by a single point of contact that sent a shock of intense, vulnerable sensation through him. She brought him to her face, her breath washing over him in a warm, wine-scented tide.
“Mia—” he started, but her lips parted.
Her tongue, a wet, hot, pink terrain, came out and licked a slow, devastating stripe up the front of his pants, over the fabric straining against his erection. A low, guttural groan vibrated from her chest into him. “Fuck,” she whispered, her voice husky. “Even through your clothes. I can taste you.”
She did it again, her tongue pressing harder, and the fabric grew damp. Ron’s head fell back, a strangled sound escaping him. This wasn’t love-making. This was something else. A consumption.
With a deft flick of her wrist, she had the button of his jeans open, the zipper down. Her finger and thumb, vast and terrifyingly precise, plucked him from his clothes. His cock sprang free, achingly hard, utterly exposed to the cavern of her mouth. She didn’t take him in. She lowered him so the slick, rosy head barely brushed against her lower lip, and then she flicked her tongue against his slit.
The sensation was catastrophic. It was focused, wet heat magnified a hundred times by his hyper-sensitive state. He cried out, his hands gripping the ridge of her fingernail for balance.
“You’re so fucking sensitive now,” she murmured, her words vibrating through him. “I can feel every little twitch.” She opened wider and took just the head into the furnace of her mouth, her tongue circling the corona. The suction was gentle, exploratory, and it pulled a continuous, whimpering moan from Ron’s throat. His hips jerked involuntarily, a tiny motion that made her hum in approval.
Then she pulled him out, a string of saliva connecting him to her lip. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, predatory. “I want to feel you come apart,” she said, and it wasn’t a request.
She set him down, not on the table, but on the couch cushion beside her colossal thigh. Before he could process the change of terrain, her hand closed around him again—not her fingers, but her whole hand, a warm, loose fist that enveloped him from head to base. One stroke from her was like ten from a woman his former size. He saw stars, his back arching.
“Please—” he begged, though he didn’t know for what. For mercy, or for more.
“No,” she said, simply. She released him and shifted, leaning back and spreading her legs. She was wearing soft cotton shorts. With one hand, she tugged the fabric aside, revealing the dark, slick folds beneath. The scent of her, musky and rich, flooded Ron’s senses, a perfume as vast as an ocean.
“Here,” she commanded. She used two fingers to part herself, exposing the glistening, dark pink entrance. “Right here. I want to feel you against me while I get myself off.”
She picked him up again, her grip firm around his torso, and positioned him at her entrance. He was so small his entire body barely covered the span of her swollen lips. She lowered him, rubbing his naked skin against her wetness, coating him in her essence. The heat was profound, the texture a landscape of silken ridges. She grinded him against her clit, a slow, rolling motion that made her breath hitch.
“Yeah,” she hissed. “Fuck, that’s it. You’re my little toy. My perfect, live little toy.”
She increased the pressure, moving him in faster circles. Ron could only cling to the skin of her inner thigh, his face pressed against the immense, trembling flesh, every nerve ending screaming. The stimulation was relentless, overwhelming. He was being used as a tool for her pleasure, a notion that should have horrified him. Instead, it unraveled him completely. His climax built not from deep within, but sparking across the surface of his skin, a fireworks display of overstimulation.
“Mia, I’m gonna—I can’t—”
“Do it,” she growled, her own movements becoming frantic. “Come all over my pussy. Show me.”
The command shattered him. His body seized, a thin, high-pitched cry tearing from his throat as he ejaculated, a pathetic, tiny spill against her monumental flesh. The pulses were agony and ecstasy, wrenching through his diminished form.
His shaking hadn’t even subsided when her own orgasm hit. She kept him pressed tight against her as her body convulsed. A guttural roar erupted from her, her thighs clamping instinctively, a world of pressure surrounding him. He felt the powerful internal flutters against his spent body, a seismic event he was merely plastered against. Her free hand dug into the couch leather, ripping a small seam.
Slowly, the tremors subsided. The only sounds were her ragged breathing and his own pathetic, shuddering gasps. The air was thick with the smells of sex and wine and leather.
With a tenderness that was almost worse than the violence of her passion, she lifted him. She brought him to her lips and kissed his belly, tasting his release mixed with her own. Then she cradled him against her chest, right between her breasts. He could feel the thunderous, slowing gallop of her heart.
“See?” she whispered into his hair, her voice gone soft, almost sleepy. “I take care of what’s mine. Every part of it.”
Ron didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He was boneless, used, adrift on a sea of her scent and her warmth. The confident man who volunteered for an experiment was gone. In his place was this trembling, oversensitive creature who belonged, utterly, to the giantess whose heartbeat was his new horizon. He nuzzled deeper, a silent surrender, as her fingertip traced a faint, possessive path down his spine.