Chapter 2: Confessions in the Afterglow
Chad woke to a profound, comforting weight. It was dark, and warm, and breathing. He opened his eyes to a landscape of smooth, golden skin. Angela’s thigh was draped over him, a heavy, living blanket that pinned him from chest to knees. He could feel the immense density of her, the slow, tidal pull of her breath. Her scent—warm skin, sleep, and that faint, electric/metallic tinge—filled his nostrils.
He tried to shift. It was like trying to wriggle out from under a sandbag. She stirred above him.
“Mmrph. You’re awake.” Her voice was a sleepy rumble from the vicinity of his ceiling.
“Kind of pinned,” he said, his own voice morning-rough. He patted the firm, vast curve of her thigh. The flesh gave only slightly under his touch, solid and real.
“Yeah.” He could hear the grin in her voice. A colossal arm slid under his neck, her hand—big enough to cradle his skull like a grapefruit—landing on his opposite shoulder. She hugged him into her side. The simple movement lifted his entire upper body off the wrecked mattress with effortless power. “Good.”
Sunlight sliced through the broken slats of his blinds, landing in stark stripes across the room. It illuminated the carnage. The bed was a splintered platform tilted toward the wall. His nightstand was crushed, a casualty of her ascent the night before. Her torn dress lay on the floor like a discarded flag from a conquered nation. And her… her body.
In the cold, honest light of day, the scale of her was even more staggering. She was lying on her side facing him, a topography of woman. Her shoulder was a rounded boulder. The swell of her hip was a smooth hill that blocked his view of the door. Her breasts were lush, heavy mounds that rested against her own arm and the slope of her torso. But it was her legs that truly defied belief. They were colossal pillars, her calf alone wider than his waist, the muscle defined even in repose. Her feet, those magnificent, impossible feet, extended off the end of the demolished bed, their soles pressing against the far wall.
“You’re staring,” she murmured. Her eyes were open now, watching him watch her.
“It’s a lot to take in,” he admitted. “Like, literally. You’re a lot.”
A flicker of uncertainty crossed her face. “Too much?”
He thought about the night. The sheer, obliterating force of her desire. The way the world had shrunk to her touch. The broken couch, the shattered bed. The terrifying, exhilarating feeling of being utterly consumed.
“No,” he said, and found he meant it with a bone-deep certainty. “Not too much. It’s incredible. You’re incredible. I’ve never… felt anything like last night.”
The insecurity vanished, replaced by a slow, smoldering heat. She shifted, rolling more completely on top of him. The mattress groaned a final, dying protest. His breath left him in a soft oof as her full weight settled. She was gravity itself. He was embedded in her, in the mattress, in the moment. She loomed above, her hair a messy curtain that blotted out the light, her face soft with sleep and something else—a playful, possessive curiosity.
“You love it,” she stated, her voice a low vibration he felt in his ribs. She wasn’t asking.
“Yeah,” he breathed, staring up at her. “I really fucking do.”
Her grin was predatory. She ground her hips down against him in a slow, circular motion. Even through the thin sheets, he could feel the formidable heat and softness of her. He was already hard. The friction was maddening, muted by layers of fabric but amplified by her sheer mass.
“Tell me what you love,” she whispered, leaning down. Her lips brushed his ear. “Say it.”
“I love… how huge you are,” he gasped, the admission feeling both obscene and liberating. “I love that you can just… take over. That I can’t do anything unless you let me.”
She purred, a sound of deep satisfaction. She rocked against him again, more insistently. “And?”
“And I love your skin. It’s like… hot stone. And your strength. The way you just picked me up.” He was babbling, spurred on by the delirious, crushing pressure. “I love your feet. Jesus, Angela, your feet are…”
As if on cue, he felt a strange, deep tremor run through her. It wasn’t a shiver. It was an internal shift, a subsurface tectonic event. She went very still above him, her eyes widening slightly.
“Oh,” she breathed.
“What?”
“It’s… happening again.”
He felt it then, a distinct, relentless expansion. The hips pinning him to the bed began to widen. It wasn't a violent jerk, but a steady, hydraulic push. The soft, heavy flesh of her ass and thighs, already monumental, began to swell outward, pressing even more insistently against him. A low, tearing sound cut the air. The last shreds of her panties, strained beyond endurance, gave up their final stitches. The sound was like a ragged sigh.
The fabric parted. The immense, naked curve of her backside, now completely free, made contact with his chest and face. The heat was incredible. The scent of her, musky and deep, filled his senses. She was growing, and she was pressing him into the broken bed with the slow, inevitable force of a rising tide.
“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice muffled by her flesh.
She lifted herself slightly, just enough for him to gasp a breath. Her face was a mixture of awe and fierce delight. “You’re making it happen,” she whispered, her voice thrillingly hoarse. “Your words. Your… your little dick grinding up against me. It’s feeding it. It’s feeding me.”
She arched her back, a pose that accentuated the glorious, spreading width of her. The sunlight caught the new, taut skin over her flanks as they broadened. Veins, thin and blue, traced new paths under the surface. She looked down her own body, watching the transformation with rapt, hungry eyes.
“Don’t stop talking,” she commanded, lowering herself again, this time angling her body so that the full, heavy weight of one newly-enlarged buttock pressed against the side of his face. His world went dark, warm, and overwhelmingly sensual. “Tell me more.”
He was drowning in her. “I love the weight,” he groaned, the words vibrational against her skin. “I love that you crush me. I love that you could snap me in half if you wanted to.”
She moaned, a deep, resonant sound that shook through her structure and into his. The growth surged. He could feel the firm globe of her ass cheek expanding, its curve becoming vaster, fuller, pushing his head to the side. The pressure was immense, almost frightening in its potency. It was submission, absolute and complete.
“You’re my good little man,” she crooned, rocking the immense new weight against him. “My perfect, tiny thing.”
Her hand, impossibly large, slid under the small of his back and lifted. It was effortless. She rearranged him like a pillow, positioning his body beneath her growing form. The sheet was now a tangled nuisance. With a single, impatient yank of her hand, she tore it away, exposing him completely to the morning air and her hungry gaze.
She stared at his erection, a normal, human proportion against the staggering scale of her thighs. A smile of wicked possession touched her lips.
“So small,” she murmured, almost to herself. She reached down with two fingers, her index finger and thumb forming a circle that could have fit around his wrist. She slid them down the length of him, from base to tip. The touch was devastating—at once a gentle exploration and a humiliating demonstration of scale. Her fingertips felt like warm, smooth stone. “So cute.”
Then her expression shifted. The playfulness hardened into something more raw. The need from the night before returned, amplified by the fresh, surging power in her veins.
“I need to feel you,” she said, her voice leaving no room for argument. “All of you. Right now.”
She didn’t wait for guidance. Her same two fingers, slick now with her own arousal—a copious, hot wetness that had gathered between her monumental thighs—returned to him. She stroked him once, twice, her giant’s touch almost overwhelming in its precision. Then she positioned him.
She rose above him on her knees. The sight was obliterating. She was a mountain of woman, a colossus blotting out the room. The dark thatch of curls between her legs was a distant bounty. And then she descended.
She didn’t bother trying to guide him in. She simply took. She lowered her hips, that immense, soft, wet heat seeking him. The head of his cock pressed against her, was immediately swallowed by the incredible, clinging warmth of her entrance. He cried out, a sharp, broken sound.
“Oh god, Angela… wait…”
“Shhh,” she soothed, still moving down. “I’ve got you.”
She didn’t stop. She impaled herself on him, a slow, devastating slide that stretched him to a burning, exquisite limit. She was so vast, so deep. He was buried to the hilt in an instant, consumed by a sensation so intense it bordered on pain. She settled, her immense body taking all of him, her flesh clasping him in a velvet, pulsating vise.
She was still. Breathing heavily. A look of profound, almost spiritual concentration on her face. “There,” she sighed. “Now I can feel you. Every little inch.”
Then she began to move. It wasn’t a frantic bucking. It was a deliberate, powerful, rising and falling of her entire body. Each descent was a controlled collapse, a deliberate use of her weight to sheathe him completely. Each lift was a Herculean effort that made the muscles in her gargantuan thighs and abdomen flex and roll. The broken bedframe squealed in rhythmic agony beneath them.
Chad could only cling to her hips, his fingers digging into the firm, expanding flesh. He was a passenger on a ship in a tempest. Every nerve in his body was on fire. The stimulation was beyond anything he’d ever known—a constant, full-bodied engulfment.
“You fit so perfectly,” she grunted, her rhythm increasing. Sweat glistened on the new, broad plain of her back. “Like you were made for me. Made for this me.”
Her movements became less controlled, more frenzied. The growth tremor hit her again in the midst of it, a savage wave that made her cry out and clamp down on him with shocking, milking pressure. Her insides fluttered and clenched around him, a chaotic, rhythmic pulsation that mimicked her external expansion. He was being milked by a living, growing cavern.
“I’m gonna—” he choked out, the warning torn from him.
“Yes,” she hissed, her eyes wild. “Come in me. Come in your giant girlfriend. Show me.”
It was an order he couldn’t disobey. The orgasm ripped through him, white-hot and devastating. He shouted, convulsing beneath her, his release pumping into her deep, welcoming heat in endless, shuddering waves. She rode him through it, her own climax triggering a moment later. It wasn’t a scream, but a roar—a guttural, triumphant sound that shook the windows in their frames. Her body locked around him, a final, crushing embrace, as her own pleasure sparked another, smaller surge of growth. Her thighs squeezed against his hips with bone-creaking force.
For a long time, there was only the sound of ragged breathing and the creak of settling wreckage. She slowly, carefully, lifted off him and collapsed onto her back beside him. The entire mattress shifted downhill toward her new mass.
Sunlight fell across them. The metallic scent was stronger now, mixed with the salty, intimate smells of sex. Chad’s body felt used, perfect, and utterly spent. He turned his head to look at her.
She was even bigger. Noticeably. Her breasts rose and fell like gentle hills. The hand she draped over her stomach was longer, the fingers more elegant. She was staring at the water-stained ceiling, a look of peaceful, satiated awe on her face.
“My apartment is destroyed,” he said quietly.
“Mmm.”
“My bed is firewood.”
“I’ll buy you a new one. A stronger one.” She turned her head, her smile lazy and content. “Maybe just a platform on the floor.”
“What do we do, Angela?” The question hung in the air, smaller and more fragile than he was.
She was silent for a moment. She flexed one foot, watching the complex architecture of bones and tendons shift under the skin. She was entranced by her own body.
“We see,” she said finally, her voice quiet but steady. “We see how big I get. We see what I can do.” She looked at him, and the vulnerability was back, shimmering just beneath the confidence. “And you stay with me. You help me.”
He looked at the crushed nightstand, at the imprints her feet had left in the drywall, at the glorious, monstrous, beautiful woman lying next to him. The world had irreversibly changed in his shitty apartment over a laundromat.
He reached out, his normal-sized hand finding her colossal one. He laced his fingers through two of hers.
“Okay,” he said.
A single, massive finger squeezed his hand in return.
A single, massive finger squeezed his hand in return.
The silence that followed was thick, comfortable, and short-lived. A loud crash from the living room made them both jump. The remains of the bookshelf, weakened by the earlier tremors, had finally given up.
“Right,” Chad said, exhaling a laugh that was mostly shock. “Cleanup.”
Extricating himself from the tilted wreckage of the bed was an archaeological dig. He had to climb over the continent of her hip, his bare feet slipping on the polished skin of her thigh before dropping to the littered floor. He found a pair of gym shorts and pulled them on, moving through his apartment like a survivor surveying a disaster zone.
The living room was worse. The couch was a total loss, its frame snapped in the middle, cushions burst like overripe fruit. Plaster dust snowed from a crack in the ceiling where her head had brushed it. He righted a toppled lamp, the shade bent.
“I am so sorry about your stuff,” Angela said from the bedroom doorway. Her voice was soft. She had to turn sideways to fit through, her shoulders scraping the frame. She’d wrapped his comforter around herself, a pathetic cloak that barely covered the essentials. She looked like a goddess in a dollhouse, acutely aware of every wall.
“It’s just stuff,” he said, and meant it. He began gathering larger splinters of wood. “You’re not stuff.”
She watched him, her gaze a physical weight on his back. He felt it. He always felt where she was in a room now, a change in atmospheric pressure.
“You’re being weirdly cool about this,” she said.
He tossed a broken shelf board into a growing pile. “What’s the alternative? Freak out? Call a scientist? You’d end up in a secret lab getting poked, and I’d end up with a really weird story nobody would believe.” He looked at her over his shoulder. “I pick you. Mess and all.”
The smile that broke across her face was the one from the game store—genuine, warm, lighting up her now-giant features. She shuffled forward, each step a careful negotiation. The floorboards whined. She lowered herself to sit on the floor, her back against the wall. It was the only thing that could hold her. The comforter pooled around her waist.
“I’m helping,” she announced, and began picking up shreds of foam cushion with her enormous, precise fingers. The sight of her, so huge and so focused on such a tiny task, made his chest ache.
They worked in a quiet, domestic rhythm for an hour. He hauled broken furniture. She gathered debris, her movements growing more confident as she learned the new spatial limits of her hands. The flirtation started subtly.
“You liked the bed breaking, didn’t you?” she asked, not looking up from a pile of shredded fabric.
He paused, a broken chair leg in his hand. “I liked what caused it.”
“Mmm.” A low hum. “You like that I’m too much for your furniture. That I break your things just by wanting you.”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. She could see the flush on his neck.
Later, as he struggled to drag the shattered couch frame toward the door, she stretched out a leg. Her foot, that magnificent, terrifying foot, easily slid under the heavy wreckage. With a grunt and a push from her powerful calf, she shifted the entire mass toward him.
“Let the big girl help,” she said, a playful glint in her eye.
“Show-off,” he muttered, grinning.
“You love it.” Her voice dropped, a conspiratorial whisper that vibrated in the dusty air. “You’re wondering how much bigger I’ll get. You’re hoping it’s a lot.”
He stopped, meeting her eyes. The playful mask slipped, just for a second, revealing the real, vulnerable question beneath. She needed to hear it.
“Yes,” he said, simple and direct. “I am hoping it’s a lot.”
Her breath caught. The growth surge was instantaneous, a deep, visceral ripple that traveled up her seated form. Her shoulders pressed harder into the wall. The comforter tightened across her chest. She bit her lip, holding back a moan of pure pleasure. It was the affirmation, he realized, as much as the biology. His desire fueled hers, which fueled the change.
By late afternoon, the worst of the wreckage was cleared into a precarious stack by the door. The apartment was barren, echoey, but navigable. A casualty of the battle. They ordered pizza, ate it cross-legged on the floor of the living room, the giant box looking like a postcard in her hands.
“Movie?” she suggested, wiping grease from her chin with a thumb the size of a sausage.
“Sure. Nothing with giant monsters. Too on the nose.”
She laughed, that wonderful, earth-shaking sound. He set up his laptop on the floor, propping it against a surviving throw pillow. He put on an old, dumb action film. It didn’t matter. They weren’t going to watch it.
She arranged herself on the floor, leaning back against the wall. Then she patted the space between her outstretched legs. “Here. Best seat in the house.”
He settled back against her, the heat of her stomach and breasts against his back and head immense and comforting. She wrapped her arms around him, her hands meeting easily over his chest. For a while, it was peaceful. Then her hands stilled.
He felt her shift her hips, the whisper of skin on bare floor. One of her legs slowly bent, drawing up.
“Keep watching the movie,” she murmured, her breath hot in his ear.
He didn’t. He watched as her right foot, the one that had started it all, rose into his peripheral vision. It was a breathtaking obscenity. From her heel to the tip of her longest toe, it was nearly the length of his entire torso. The arch was a high, sweeping curve, the skin there a shade paler and traced with a delicate map of bluish veins. The ball was a wide, padded expanse, the toes long, elegant, and perfectly aligned, each tipped with a neatly polished crescent of nail.
It hovered there, a suspended monument. Then, with agonizing slowness, it began to descend toward his lap.
The sheer scale of it blotted out the light from the laptop. The heat radiating from her sole was a palpable wave. It covered his entire lower body, from thigh to thigh, before it even touched him. The first contact was a whisper, the warm, slightly rough skin of her sole just brushing the fabric of his shorts over his erection. A jolt, electric and sharp, went through him.
“Angela…”
“Shhh.” She flexed her foot, pressing down. The weight was immediate, substantial, a firm, smothering pressure. The entire, enormous plane of her foot settled over his crotch, her toes curling over his left hip, her heel digging into his right. She began to move it in a slow, grinding, circular motion.
The friction was brutal, exquisite. The weave of his gym shorts became a maddening grating texture between her skin and his sensitive flesh. He could feel every ridge of her sole, the firm pad of her ball, the subtle bones. He was hard, trapped, and completely at the mercy of this one part of her.
“You can smell me, can’t you?” she whispered. Her other hand left his chest and slid down, her fingers splaying over the top of her own foot, pressing it down harder onto him. She was masturbating with him as the toy. “On my skin. All day. That’s my scent on my sole. You’re breathing it in.”
He was. A musky, salty, profoundly intimate aroma filled the space under the foot-shaped tent she’d made. He groaned, his hips pushing up involuntarily against the smothering weight.
“You want to come like this?” she asked, her voice a low, teasing thrum. Her grinding became more purposeful, a steady, rotating pressure. “You want to spurt in your shorts under my big, dirty foot? My giant, fucking foot?”
“Yes,” he hissed, the word torn from him. The visual, the smell, the crushing, humiliating, perfect pressure—it was too much.
“Then do it,” she commanded, and pressed down with all the deliberate, effortless strength in her leg.
It was the final, overwhelming stimulus. The orgasm wrecked him, a silent, convulsive eruption under the relentless smothering heat of her. He shook, his back arching against her stomach, his hands clutching at her colossal ankle. He came in hot, pulsing waves, the wetness immediately soaking through the fabric, a damp surrender she could surely feel through her sole.
She held her foot there, pressed down, until the last tremor left him. Then, with painful slowness, she lifted it. The cool air on his soaked shorts was a shock. She brought her foot up, curling her leg, and examined her own sole in the flickering light of the movie, as if looking for traces of him.
“Mmm.” She sounded profoundly satisfied. She then lowered that same foot, not to his lap, but to his chest. She placed her warm, slightly damp sole over his heart, her toes curling toward his throat. A possessive, grounding weight. “Mine.”
On screen, cars exploded. In the ruined apartment, Chad lay pinned beneath her foot, breathing in the evidence of his own submission, and watched the ceiling crack above him spiderweb a little further.