Chapter 2: Pussy Possession
The world was a wet, shattered dream viewed from between the soft, immense cliffs of Darla’s cleavage. Duffy clung to the sodden cotton of the diner t-shirt, the fabric a frail hammock suspended over a hundred-foot drop to the flooded street below. Her every step was a seismic event. Each footfall plunged through asphalt into the murky water that now swamped Main Street, sending up cold, dirty geysers that sprayed his precarious perch.
He was shivering. The night air was cool, and he was naked, slick from head to toe with Darla. Her scent—musky, salty, profoundly intimate—was a fog around him, marking him as hers in a way a ring or a word never could.
“Gwendolyn Matthews, you put that mail truck down right now!”
Darla’s voice wasn’t just sound; it was a force. It vibrated through the dense muscle and soft fat of her breasts, thrumming against Duffy’s back. He watched, peering over the vast curve of her sternum, as the scene unfolded like a disaster movie shot from the worst seat in the house.
Gwendolyn, forty feet of quivering pale indignation, froze with the crumpled postal vehicle held over her head like a trophy. The other women—Beatrice, Maryanne, Janine, and a half-dozen other newly colossal figures—stared up at Darla. Their faces, each the size of a billboard, were a slideshow of rage, envy, and dawning fear. Darla Mae Jenkins, who’d poured their coffee and laughed too loud at their jokes, now loomed over them all, a dark-skinned colossus with fire in her eyes.
“This is my town,” Darla boomed, taking another step that made the buildings tremble. Water sloshed over the curb near the ruined hardware store. “Y’all are gonna calm the hell down before you wreck everything we got!”
“Your town?” Janine Cooper’s voice screeched, amplified by her new size. Her pink curlers were askew, trembling. “You just claimed the only decent man left! You think that gives you the right?”
Darla’s hand, the one not cupped protectively against her chest where Duffy hid, flew to her hip. “I didn’t see you making a move ‘til I did! You was just watchin’ from the shadows, Janine, like you always do!”
The accusation hit its mark. Janine’s face flushed a deeper shade. Her eyes, like searchlights, swept down to the ruin of the Crocodile Savings and Loan. The bank was half-submerged, its broken glass doors yawning open, the polished lobby floor now a reflective pond under a foot of brackish water. A giant footprint—Darla’s—had cracked the concrete into a jagged, sunken trench right through the loan officer’s desk.
“Maybe I wanted somethin’ else,” Janine sneered, but her gaze kept darting to the damp shirt pressed against Darla’s chest. To the tiny, glistening shape of Duffy nestled there.
Duffy felt the shift. The conflict wasn’t about the town anymore. It was about him. The prize. The singular, un-giant man. A fresh, cold fear seeped into his bones. He was a flashpoint.
Darla felt it too. He felt the huge muscles of her chest tighten around him. Her breathing, a vast wind in his world, grew deeper, more ragged. The possessive impulse he’d awakened in her was twitching back to life, overpowering the brief flash of civic duty.
“You ain’t gettin’ him,” Darla muttered, more to herself than to Janine. Her protective hand curled tighter, her fingers—each as long as a canoe—creating a near-complete cave around him. The dim light from the swaying bank sign cast strange, watery reflections on the skin of her inner arm.
“Why? ‘Cause you rubbed him all over your goddamn cooch?” Janine shouted, her voice raw. “You think that’s a claim? I can wash him off!”
A dangerous quiet fell, broken only by the drip of water from broken pipes and the low, wet gurgle of the flooded street. The other giantesses watched, a rapt, hungry audience.
Darla looked down at her own hand, at the tiny man-shaped secret within it. The arguments Duffy had made—about containment, about reason—dissolved in the acid wash of Janine’s challenge. This wasn’t about logic. It was about power. It was about proof.
A slow, terrifying smile spread across Darla’s face. It wasn’t her friendly diner smile. It was something ancient and fiercely female.
“Wash him off?” she said, her voice dropping to a rumble that Duffy felt in his teeth. “Honey, you don’t know the half of it.”
Her other hand came up. With a gentleness that was somehow more frightening than violence, her thumb and forefinger—pillars of smooth, dark flesh—pinched the soaked collar of the t-shirt Duffy clung to. She lifted him, fabric and all, from the cradle of her cleavage.
The world swung dizzyingly. He was hanging in the air, fifty feet above the waterlogged street, suspended by a damp scrap of cloth. The faces of the giant women turned up toward him, their eyes wide.
“Darla, don’t—” he began, but his voice was a fly’s buzz against the enormity of the moment.
She didn’t even look at him. Her eyes were locked on Janine. With a slow, deliberate movement, she brought him down, not to safety, but between her legs.
The scale was incomprehensible. The thatch of dark curls he’d glimpsed earlier was now a forest. The heat that emanated from her was a swamp’s breath, dense and primal. The scent of her, now unmixed with any other, was overwhelming—salt, musk, clean sweat, and something profoundly, unmistakably her. It was the smell of her want, concentrated and blazing.
“You see this, Janine?” Darla’s voice was a throaty purr now, loud enough for all to hear. “You see what I got?”
She didn’t place him on her thigh or in the hollow of her hip. She went lower. Her free hand came down, fingers spreading the generous, slick folds of her sex. In the erratic, colored glow of the broken neon, Duffy saw an expanse of glistening, deep-pink flesh, soft and swollen. A cavern of wet, trembling heat.
“No,” Duffy breathed, understanding dawning. He struggled against the shirt, but her grip was absolute.
“Watch,” Darla commanded the world.
She pressed him there.
Not with a shove, but with a slow, insistent pressure. The warmth was instant, enveloping. The fabric of the shirt was nothing; he felt the incredible softness of her inner lips yield against his back. He was being enveloped. His head, his shoulders, his back—they sank into a silken, wet embrace that was hotter than any bath. The sensation short-circuited his brain. It was terror and a shocking, unwelcome jolt of intimacy.
He was completely helpless. Her grip on the shirt released. He didn’t fall. He was held, cocooned in the slick, muscular grip of her body. His world narrowed to pulsing, velvety darkness and the thunderous sound of her heartbeat. The outside light filtered in a dim, pinkish red. He was inside her.
“His whole damn body,” Darla groaned, the sound vibrating through the flesh surrounding him. She shifted her stance, a minute adjustment that sent ripples of crushing, soft pressure along his length. He was curled fetal, his face pressed against her inner wall, his back cradled by her. He could feel the rhythmic, powerful clench of muscles he had no name for. They kneaded him, a possessive, internal massage.
He tried to push, to find purchase, but his hands slid on the smooth, wet tissue. He was submerged. Owned.
Darla looked up, her face a mask of fierce, triumphant agony. “See something you like, honey?” she called out to Janine, her voice thick with exertion and a dark, deep pleasure. “Too bad his whole damn body fits inside just one part of me now.”
The vulgarity of it, the sheer, impossible scale of the claim, hung in the air. Janine took a step back, her face ashen. The other women stared, some in horror, some with a kind of awed, vicarous hunger.
Darla began to move. It was a subtle, rolling motion of her hips, a slow, devastating rhythm. For Duffy, it was a cataclysm. The walls around him pulsed and squeezed, a wet, hot fist milking him of all thought, all resistance. The pressure was immense, all-encompassing. It was less like sex and more like being gently, thoroughly digested by a goddess. He couldn’t breathe her scent; he was in it. He couldn’t feel her heat; he was steeped in it. Every inch of him was being claimed, branded from the inside out by her most private flesh.
He heard her, her moans a distant, seismic thunder. He felt her muscles contract in a series of rhythmic, pounding waves, each one pressing the air from his lungs in a soft, involuntary groan. He was a tool for her pleasure, a living, breathing proof of her power.
The orgasm that took her shook the very ground. A deep, guttural cry was torn from her throat. The flesh around him convulsed, a series of violent, crushing spasms that made black spots swim before his eyes in the dark. He was pressed, squeezed, utterly dominated by the force of her climax.
When it finally subsided, he lay spent, motionless, encased in a dripping, tremulous warmth. He was drenched in her, more thoroughly than before. This was no surface mark. This was a saturation.
Slowly, carefully, Darla reached down. Her fingers, slick with her own wetness, slid into the folds and plucked him out. He emerged into the cool night air, gasping, dripping, utterly transformed. He hung from her pinched grip, a tiny, glistening offering.
She held him up for Janine to see. “You still wanna wash him off?” Darla’s voice was hoarse, sated, terrifyingly soft. “Go on. Try.”
Janine stared at the dripping, shell-shocked man in Darla’s grasp. She looked at the satisfied, colossal woman holding him. She looked at the ruined bank, the flooded street, the other giants waiting in the wings. Her shoulders slumped. She took another step back, then turned, and with a sound like a dying wave, lumbered away into the dark.
One by one, the others followed, their brief rebellion cowed by the raw, explicit display of possession.
Silence descended, broken only by the drip of water and Duffy’s ragged, shallow breaths.
Darla brought him close to her face. Her eyes, each as big as a car door, were soft now, glazed with a deep, possessive contentment. She looked at him, a pearl pulled from her own depths.
“See?” she whispered, her breath a warm, damp gust. “I told you I’d keep you safe.”
Duffy could only stare, trembling in the aftermath. He was safe from them.
He belonged, body and soul, to her. The proof was running in sticky rivulets down his legs. The realization was colder than the night air.
From the shadows of a broken alleyway, a pair of eyes watched. Not giant, but human-sized. They watched Darla gently place her damp, claimed prize back into the hollow of her cleavage, watched her turn and begin her clumsy, earth-shaking walk back toward the edge of town. They blinked once, then disappeared into the dark, a new and different kind of danger taking note.