Chapter 5: Oral Explorations
The heat from her mouth was still on his skin, a phantom humidity that made his clothes stick to him. Tony lay on the quilt, gasping, the world swimming back into focus—the rafters, the lantern light, the colossal face hovering above him, her expression a turbulent mix of wonder, hunger, and confusion.
Her lower lip glistened where it had touched him. She was breathing hard, each exhalation a warm gust that ruffled his hair. The silence wasn’t empty; it was charged, crackling with something that had been unnamed and was now demanding definition.
“I…” Belle began, then stopped. Her voice was thicker than usual, husky. “I didn’t mean to… I just wanted to know…”
“You wanted to know what I tasted like,” Tony finished, his own voice shaky. He pushed himself up on his elbows. Every nerve was alive, jangling with a fear that had seamlessly twisted into a deep, shocking arousal. He was hard, painfully so, a fact that felt absurd and inevitable against the rough canvas of his jeans.
She nodded, a minute dip of her head that still felt like a seismic event. Her eyes were fixed on him, wide and dark. “Yes. And now… I feel…” She placed a hand low on her abdomen, over the sheet-dress. The gesture was instinctively, profoundly human. “It’s a hot… ache. Here.”
Tony swallowed. He understood the mechanics, the biology. But the scale… the scale turned everything into a surreal nightmare of desire. “It’s because you’re turned on,” he said, the clinical term feeling grotesque in the situation.
“Turned on,” she repeated, testing the words. Her gaze dropped to the noticeable bulge in his pants. A new curiosity, sharper and more dangerous, flashed in her eyes. “You, too.”
It wasn’t a question. There was no hiding it.
“Yeah,” he admitted, a short, sharp laugh escaping him. “Yeah, Belle, I am.”
Her hand, the one that had been on her stomach, moved. It came toward him slowly, with that now-familiar, terrifying care. Her index finger, broader than his thigh, descended. It didn’t touch him. It hovered a foot above his body, tracing the air over his form. He felt the displacement of it, the heat radiating from her skin.
“This is what it’s for?” she murmured, more to herself than to him. “The… the feeling. It’s for this?”
“Part of it,” Tony said. His mind was racing, a frantic algorithm trying to compute the impossible variables. Safety. Consent. Logistics. Physics. “Belle, listen. You’re… you could crush me. Without even meaning to.”
Her finger stopped its aerial tracing. Her eyes met his, and the childlike wonder was gone, replaced by a stark, fierce clarity. “I know what I can do. I know the weight of my own hands. I won’t hurt you.” She paused, her voice dropping to a low, possessive rumble. “You’re mine to take care of.”
The declaration should have chilled him. It did the opposite. It stoked the fire in his gut. The trust was absolute, and it ran both ways.
Her finger finally made contact. Not on his erection, but on his chest. She laid the immense, warm pad of it against him, covering his entire torso. The pressure was firm, undeniable, but not painful. It was a claim. He could feel the texture of her skin, smooth and impossibly vast. His breath hitched.
“Show me,” she breathed. The words were hot, full of a desperate need that echoed his own. “Show me what to do.”
Tony’s mind blanked. Then it focused on a single, stupid, simple point of reference. “You… you touch. Where it feels good.”
Her finger began to move, dragging down his body with a slow, frictionless pressure. Over his shirt, over his belt, down to his hips. It was the most overwhelming sensation he had ever experienced—a massage from a god. He arched into it, a helpless, tiny movement against her.
Encouraged, her touch grew bolder. Her other hand came down, her thumb joining her forefinger. They bracketed him, not squeezing, but encircling his legs and lower body. She lifted him from the quilt, cradling his entire form from the knees up in the loose cage of her fingers. He was suspended, utterly at her mercy.
Her face came closer. Her breath was hot and sweet. “Can I see?” she asked, her gaze locked on his jeans.
He couldn’t speak. He nodded.
Her precision was breathtaking. The tip of her thumbnail—a great, curved wedge of keratin the size of a dinner plate—hooked under the button of his jeans. With a faint snick, it popped open. The zipper followed, pulled down with a gentle, grating sound. She peeled the denim and his boxers down in one motion, exposing him to the warm, humid air of the barn.
He was completely naked in the cradle of her hands. Vulnerable. Aroused beyond reason.
She stared. Her breath hitched, a small gust of wind. “So small,” she whispered, but there was no derision in it. Only a kind of ravenous fascination.
Her thumb moved. It brushed against the length of him, a touch so soft it was almost a thought. A jolt of pure electricity shot through Tony. He cried out, a sharp, ragged sound.
The sound pleased her. A low hum vibrated from her throat. She did it again, a slow, deliberate stroke from base to tip with the very edge of her thumb. The sensation was unbearable—not enough friction, but overwhelming scale, a total envelopment of sensation.
“Like that?” she asked, her voice a dark, rumbling purr.
“Yes… fuck, yes…” he gasped.
She learned fast. She adjusted the angle, using the smooth, hot skin of her inner thumb to apply more direct pressure. Her movements were agonizingly slow, incredibly careful. She was watching his face, listening to his breaths, studying the reactions of his tiny body. She was learning him.
Tony surrendered. He let his head fall back against the solid wall of her finger, his glasses askew. He gave himself over to the impossible mechanics of it: a being the size of a building, masturbating him with a tenderness that shattered his soul. Her touch was everything—dominant, consuming, yet meticulously controlled. Pre-cum beaded at his tip, a minute glistening she noticed immediately.
She brought her thumb away, staring at the tiny wet spot on her skin. Then, with a deliberation that made Tony’s heart stop, she brought her thumb to her mouth and swept her tongue over the spot.
Her eyes rolled back slightly. A deep, guttural sound escaped her. “You taste… good,” she groaned. “Salty. Like the creek stones in the sun.”
The raw, filthy honesty of it pushed him closer to the edge.
She wanted more. He could see it in the desperate focus of her gaze. But her hands were too big, her mouth an abyss. Frustration flickered across her face.
Then her expression shifted. An idea.
With exquisite care, she lowered him, not back to the quilt, but onto the warm, firm plane of her stomach, just above where the sheet was tied. His bare skin met the smooth, heated bronze of hers. The heat was profound, radiating into his bones. She held him in place with one finger, a light anchor.
With her other hand, she reached down to the tie of her makeshift dress. A single pull, and the knot gave way. The sheet fell away, pooling around her hips where she lay on her side.
Tony’s breath left his body.
Her breasts were enormous, pendulous, each larger than his entire form. They were crowned with dark, broad areolas and nipples the size of his head, hardened and peaked. The valley between them was a warm, shadowed canyon. Her stomach was a rolling landscape of powerful muscle, soft at the surface, firm beneath.
But lower, between the mighty pillars of her thighs, was what she was revealing to him. A thatch of dark, curly hair. And beneath, the glistening, swollen folds of her sex, magnified to a scale that was both terrifying and mesmerizing. The scent of her, musky and deep and achingly human, washed over him, a warm, pervasive cloud.
“There,” she whispered, her voice trembling with need and vulnerability. “Can you…? Is that right?”
She was offering him entry. A doorway to a warm, wet world he could literally walk into.
Logic was ashes. Caution was a distant memory. There was only the heat, the smell, the overwhelming presence of her need.
“Yes,” he gritted out. “It’s right.”
Her finger lifted from his back. He was free on the vast plain of her abdomen. He crawled forward, on his hands and knees, toward the heat. It was like approaching a geological feature, a living, breathing cave of slick, pink flesh. The folds were parted, glistening with her arousal. Each one was as tall as he was.
He reached the edge. The heat was intense, the scent primal. He placed a shaking hand against the inner flesh. It was hot, softer than anything he’d ever touched. It yielded under his palm.
A shivering groan rippled through her. The ground beneath him—her stomach—trembled.
He leaned forward, pressing his face against the slick, hot surface. He kissed it. A tiny, meaningless gesture against the expanse. Then he opened his mouth and licked a stripe along the inside of a fold.
The reaction was instantaneous. Belle jerked, a full-body convulsion that lifted Tony an inch off her skin before settling back. A sound ripped from her throat—a raw, unfiltered cry of shocked pleasure that echoed in the barn’s cavernous space.
“Tony…!” It was half a shout, half a sob.
He did it again, using his hands to part the flesh further, burying his face in her. He licked, sucked, explored the foreign, gargantuan landscape of her pleasure. He found the hood of her clit, a prominent, swollen peak the size of a football. He lapped at it.
Her thighs slammed together, a sudden, involuntary motion that would have crushed him had he been between them. Instead, they created a thunderous clap of flesh that shook the air. She cried out again, a string of gasped, broken words. “Oh God—there—please—don’t stop—”
He didn’t. He lost himself in the work, in the taste and feel of her, in the seismic reactions he was causing. Her hands came down, not to touch him, but to claw at the quilt beneath her, gripping great handfuls of fabric and tearing it. Her hips began to move in tiny, frantic circles, grinding against the empty air, against his microscopic ministrations.
He felt the build in her. The tremors in the flesh under his mouth grew more violent. Her breathing became ragged, desperate gasps. Her whispers turned to a chanting litany of “yes” and “please” and “more.”
He focused on her clit, sucking, licking, using his whole body to worship it.
It broke.
Her orgasm wasn’t a wave; it was a continent shifting. A deep, internal convulsion seized her. Her back arched, lifting Tony high into the air on the platform of her stomach. A guttural roar erupted from her, shaking the beams of the barn. A flood of her release, warm and copious, washed over him, drenching him.
She shuddered, the immense power of it gradually subsiding into deep, shivering aftershocks. Slowly, carefully, she lowered herself back down, panting.
Tony lay on her stomach, soaked and breathless. He was still painfully hard, aching.
Her head turned. Her face, slack with spent pleasure, came into view. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, dark with satisfaction. She looked at him, at his small, erect body slick with her.
A slow, possessive smile touched her lips.
Her hand rose, dripping wet from between her own thighs. She brought two enormous, glistening fingers toward him.
“My turn,” she breathed, her voice wrecked and hungry.
Before he could react, the wet, hot vise of her fingers closed around him. Not squeezing, but holding him with a firm, slick embrace. She lifted him from her stomach, bringing him up through the air toward her face.
She didn’t put him in her mouth this time. She held him before her parted lips, his body suspended in the steam of her breath.
Then, with a slow, deliberate precision that made him whimper, she touched the tip of her tongue—wet, hot, and rough—to the very head of his cock.
It was too much. The visual alone—the monstrous, beautiful face, the focused desire in her eyes, the impossible contact—sent him over the edge. He came with a choked shout, his orgasm ripped from him, painting streaks across her lower lip and chin.
She watched, fascinated, as he pulsed in her grasp. When he was spent, trembling, she drew her tongue slowly over her lips, tasting him again, mixing his release with hers.
She brought him close to her face, her eyes holding his. She looked utterly, devastatingly satisfied.
“Now,” she whispered, her voice a contented rumble that vibrated through his very bones. “We know.”