They swarmed over me! I was like a wounded wasp fallen into a red ants’ nest! One of them burrowed up my arse, and stayed there, doing I don’t know what, with I don’t know what, but it made my cock as hard as a concrete bridge support. They twined around it, they slid up it, they slid down it, they jacked themselves off, they jacked each other off, they tongued each other, they tongued me, thirty at a time, they massaged my balls with their feet, they stuck their arses in my mouth, I made a line of them come by sticking my nose up their cunts! (Why hadn’t I thought of that one before?).
It was high time for me to blow off.
Suddenly they all drew back. And you wont believe this. They started to climb up on each other, like five hundred naked little acrobats, they climbed up, they twined together, all sinewy, and musculaturely ... What were they doing? They were forming themselves into one giant woman! When they finished, with quite a few dropping off in sheer exhaustion, she was about twenty-five feet high, with huge PULSATING breasts, hair made of flowing naked legs, thighs rippling with little glistening breasts like hundreds of pink and brown moons, and, as I watched, breathless, a BIG gaping cunt, its lips rippling with a hundred pink red mouths, and surrounded by waving tresses of multi-coloured hair!
She aproached, surprisingly nimbly, toward me. A hand made of hands reached out and lowered my cock, she bent, both hands made of soft soft hands, angled it into that rippling, opening and closing cunt. It was in!
She straddled me. The whole mad machine started to pump and gyrate, pump, swivel, gyrate, suck, withdraw, blow, pump, swivel, twist, gyrate, and the moaning! It was like fucking ten whole girls’ choirs at once!
The choirs moved faster, I moved faster, what a sight we must’ve made!
The really amazing thing was that they all seemed to feel as ONE WOMAN. They were like iron filings all aligned in the same direction by the magnetic waves of my big surging cock.
I closed my eyes. It was like a river of warm raspberry jello surging. It was like hot firm custard. It was like Mom’s apple pie, and how Mom’s sister used to spoon in the innards of Mom’s pie with a big silver spoon in front of me, when Mom wasn’t looking. And how she licked it! That long red glistening tongue brought to a point, lifting off the last tiny fleck of soft, perfectly cooked apple ...
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I came. It blew through the giant woman like a geyser erupting, ripping and scattering her constituents apart. None of the little women were hurt seriously when they landed, I don’t think!
That was the peak of my sexual adventures on Lillipussia. There was plenty of horsing around afterward, but, I was getting bored. Fantastic though Lillipussia was, and I’ll take my memories of the place to my grave, I was still hankering after Mabel my friendly neighbourhood pole-dancer. But how was I ever going to get away from Lillipussia and its legions of hungry little pussies?
As my mom was always saying: Necessity is the mother of invention. And boy, when I heard what the Lillipussies had planned for me next, I came up with an escape plan quicker than the snap of a pimp’s purse.
The little women were getting bored with me too. I was lavished with love just the same, but there ain’t nothing better for a pussy than a cock that more or less fits. I don’t blame them for wanting something closer to their own size. I do blame them for the solution they came up with.
The Head Witch Doctoress brewed up a big vat of the special shrinking potion their ancestors used to shrink heads with. She reckoned that if my dick was pickled in this for a few hours it’d get me down to a manageable size. One of the ladies who’d been assigned to me the first night broke ranks to warn me about the plot.
What to do? I had to get off the island, but on what? No boat. It would take too long to make a raft. What then? Fly, burrow, float? … Float!
One moonless night my little friend got me all worked up with whispers and dirty little stories, and I kept remembering Aunt Flo, spooning in the hot entrails of apple pie, and Mabel, her lovely big butt twitching on that pole under the flood of red light. My clever little friend smuggled in a super large dose of that anaesthetic I mentioned earlier and covered my erection in it so it wouldn’t deflate. Man, it was as big as a dinghy.
I grabbed a bag full of supplies, stuck my little friend inside – if I left her behind she assured me that she’d be torn apart and fed to the miniature wart-hogs – and ran, or, actually, tottered down to the beach. The tide was peaking, and would soon be going out. I put both hands round my cock and jumped into the breakers. It worked! We floated further and further out. I lashed the thing to me with some cord and used my hands to paddle us out into the deep ocean. This time we had a compass, so we knew where we were going. But I kept thinking of Auntie Flo and Mabel, and the big rippling pussy of the giant woman that had eaten me a few days before, and my little friend kept me stiff and buoyant with her expert little tongue and fingers and toes, and a huge feather duster she’d brought to tickle me round the base of the foreskin, Christ that always drives me crazy …
Sadly my little friend didn’t make it. One morning I woke to find her gone, but luckily the feather duster was still there, and dry, so I tickled and fantasised and steadily paddled my way on to dry land three days later.
There’s a lot more to tell, particularly about the BazzookaBazooms, the giant women who inhabited the island I was washed up on next.
But reading over this I don’t think there’s much point, I know no one will ever believe me!
The Warmth Of His Touch by Viva Jones
It started as a dare. When Belinda confided in her best friend, Mia, about Alistair, the new man in her book club, and his quiet good looks, his reserved nature and his intellectual demeanour, she’d jokingly admitted that he was about as far from her type – which was rugged and sporty – as he could possibly hope to be. Mia had got very excited, quoting from the last self-help book she’d just read, and said that it was precisely because he was against type that she should date him.
‘We keep repeating mistakes,’ she’d insisted paraphrasing the book’s contents, ‘and looking for the same guy, only to find he has exactly the same faults as the last one. Until we break this pattern we’ll never move forward and find happiness. Think of your last three boyfriends – they all screwed up in the end, didn’t they? So try Alistair. Go on, I dare you. You never know, he might surprise you.’
Less than convinced, Belinda ensured that she sat next to him at the following book club meeting, and as he analysed and assessed the latest Booker winner (of which she’d only managed the first two chapters), she gazed into his soft grey eyes and studied the lines of his rather too thin lips. When she cracked a joke he didn’t laugh at her heart sank. There was no way she could last a whole date with this man, she thought. If they couldn’t laugh together, which certainly seemed the case, then they didn’t stand a chance. But she remembered Mia’s words, and persisted. A dare was a dare, after all, and Mia herself had just chosen against type and was already on her second date with Mike, an aircraft engineer. (‘Think of all the free flights,’ she’d exclaimed.)
The book discussed and reviewed, the group broke up into convivial chat, and Belinda turned to Alistair and asked about his life. He was a financial analyst, he told her, and had recently returned to the UK after a spell in Frankfurt. He lived alone, having broken up from his German girlfriend, and had a love for the arts, regularly attending concerts on the South Bank. His family originated from Norfolk and his parents owned a ski chalet in Austria. After the arts, skiing was his passion. All the time he was speaking Belinda ensured she watched him with a rapt expression on her face, and avoided revealing how low-brow her own tastes were, and that her favourite programme was Strictly Come Dancing and the last concert she’d attended was Kylie Minogue’s. He was a nice guy, she decided, if a bit stuffy. The sort of g
uy her parents would approve of. She could imagine them being very impressed. She and Alistair had nothing in common (although she’d love to learn to ski), but if she could just get one date out of him the dare would be won.
A week later, the date was suggested: a low-budget French film followed by a late supper at some Japanese place he knew close by. Subtitles were not really her thing, but Belinda managed to follow the movie (at least she enjoyed the glorious Parisian backdrop and the stylish clothes) and pretended to be interested as he gave it his assessment over bowls of steaming noodles and a cup of Japanese tea. She ached for a glass of wine but thought it inappropriate to ask for one.
Leaving the date with a quick peck on the cheek, Belinda told herself she’d never see Alistair again outside the book club. He was boring, somewhat on the self-engrossed side and they really did have nothing in common. But a few days later she found herself attending a recital with him, and pretending to enjoy it, followed by a stroll around the National Portrait Gallery. Was he trying to educate her? She tried making him laugh – a speciality of hers – and he’d allow her an indulgent smile, like a father being kind to an overexcited child, and on her way home Belinda told herself that was it. She’d refuse his next invitation, if indeed it was forthcoming. She’d had enough. She’d fulfilled her dare, he hadn’t changed her life (just slowed it down a little) and now it was time to move on.
On his next phone call, however, Alistair invited her to his family’s ski chalet in Austria. ‘It’s very modest,’ he insisted, ‘but comfortable and cosy, and there are some gentle slopes nearby making it perfect for beginners. Normally it’s rented out, but we got a last minute cancellation, and I thought it too good an opportunity to miss.’
As did Belinda. Telling herself she’d enjoy learning to ski, and that just maybe there’d be a bit of brandy about to ease the conversation, she decided to let him have one bad shag and then call it a day. Alistair would be wooden and awkward in bed and she was convinced she’d get nothing out of it, but it would mean she could walk away knowing she’d contributed to the weekend in her own special way. If Belinda was confident about one thing, it was her own sexual ability.
Meeting him at the airport, she was pleasantly surprised to see how good he looked in civvies – she’d only ever seen him in his work suit before. Now he was in jeans with a quilted jacket, his hair looked less groomed and he hadn’t shaved, and she began to see another layer of Alistair revealing itself in front of her. She liked the way he insisted on carrying her bag for her, and at security she even got a smile out of him with her striptease quip as she removed her belt, boots and jacket. On the plane they drank coffees and shared a pack of shortbread fingers, and, despite her misgivings, Belinda began to think that maybe the weekend wouldn’t be quite as dull as she’d imagined.
On their arrival, he hired a small car and they drove for half an hour up into the hills, through snow-clad forests and chocolate-box hamlets, to where the family ski chalet was based. Belinda had never seen such pretty scenery before, and was sorry that this would probably be the only time she experienced it. As they drew nearer, the chalet was everything she’d been expecting, with its broad snow-covered roof, shuttered windows and dark wooden balcony, and she persuaded herself that Alistair was someone she could maybe fall in love with after all.
‘It’ll be cold at first,’ he warned her as they entered. ‘But I’ll have the heating on in a jiffy and by the time we’re back it’ll be toasty, I assure you.’
Just the words “jiffy” and “toasty” were enough to make her doubt the weekend all over again.
The chalet was indeed cosy, however, with quilted throws over the sofas, lots of wood furniture and big old lamps, rugs that slipped a little on the polished wooden floors and a pretty kitchen that almost made her want to bake apple strudel.
Alistair deposited their luggage into the main bedroom, she noticed, saying they could sort their things out later. ‘Let’s hit the slopes first, eh?’
He had gear for her, his mother’s old skis and a suit belonging to his sister, and in no time Belinda thought she looked like a pro. Once on the slopes he was surprisingly patient with her, guiding her along, giving her gentle demonstrations and correcting her position. She found she liked him more, as if he was the caring brother she never had, and the more she relaxed the better her skiing came along. Once, when she nearly took a tumble, he caught her, and as he held her in his arms, she felt the tiniest jolt of electricity between them.
But then he’d say something like, “You’re doing awfully well for your age”, and all her misgivings would come hurtling back, faster than an out-of-control snow-boarder.
One minute she fancied him, the next she couldn’t wait to get away.
Towards the end of the day, however, she felt guilty about holding him back, and urged him to head for a tougher slope while she enjoyed a hot chocolate laced with rum. Happily he obliged and when, a good hour later, he returned, skiing expertly right up to the café, she was reminded of James Bond, or some kind of action hero, and she reckoned that, with the help of two large tots of rum, he’d just got that little bit sexier.
She’d still dump him after the weekend, though. Deciding you weren’t totally bored by someone wasn’t a good enough excuse to keep seeing them.
When they returned to the chalet in the fading light, instead of finding it warm and toasty, as Alistair had promised, it felt even colder than before. ‘What’s gone wrong here then?’ he asked, checking the radiators and the thermostat. ‘Damn it, the boiler must have broken.’
He spent a while complaining to the management company while she huddled on a sofa, under one of its quilted throws.
‘Belinda I am so sorry,’ he told her once he got off the phone. ‘I feel terrible about this. Let’s go out for supper and warm up in a restaurant.’
They did so, and enjoyed a hearty stew and a good bottle of red wine, followed by a glass each of the house wine. They were in for a cold night, after all. He was mortified about the heating, he kept telling her, and Belinda kept repeating that it wasn’t his fault, and that she’d be all right. But on arriving back at the chalet, it felt so utterly chilled that she didn’t even want to change into her night clothes.
‘I don’t want to sound presumptuous, but if we share a bed we’ll get warmer,’ Alistair suggested, as she nodded bleakly, the buzz of the wine dissipating in the cold air.
While he was in the bathroom, Belinda took a deep breath, pulled off her clothes and threw on her deliberately unsexy pyjamas, adding a pair of thick socks for good measure. Then she climbed into bed, lying flat on her back and pulling the thick duvet up around her. Alistair emerged from the bathroom in his pyjamas, and climbed primly into bed beside her.
‘I’m so sorry about this,’ he whispered, lightly touching her hair. ‘Tomorrow we’ll spend the day skiing and then we’re on the evening flight home. We’ll survive.’
‘It’s OK,’ she whispered back. ‘I’ve had a wonderful time.’
‘Good.’ He leant forward and kissed her gently, a peck on the lips, and Belinda braced herself for what was to come. She might as well let him have sex and get it over with, she decided. What was the harm?
He kissed her again, and this time his tongue poked through to meet hers, and she felt an instinctive darting feeling between her legs. His tongue was surprisingly adept, and she began to relax into the kiss, folding him in closer with her arms. His right hand crept under her pyjama top towards her breast, her nipples already firm due to the cold, and as he touched them she gasped – so warm were his fingers as they stroked and played with her nipples that she could feel her skin immediately reacting to them. He then climbed on top, dislodging the thick duvet as he did so, and allowing more cold air to embrace her body. He pushed her pyjama top right up and took each breast in his hands, and although this meant they were exposed to the cold air, his hands kept them warm, and the difference in temperature was exciting in itself. There was an element of pleasure and
pain here, and Belinda didn’t know which she preferred, so chose to lose herself in the sensation.
Then he slid down and started to kiss her breasts, and to suck and gently flick at each nipple with his tongue, and once again his warmth stirred her, and she felt it flooding inside her, permeating her skin, and if there’d been an infra-red camera poised above her, it would reveal her blue skin gently turning a soft red. He began kissing her tummy now, moving gently but persistently down her body, teasing her by taking his time, and Belinda felt herself becoming wet with desire. When he reached the waistband of her pyjama bottoms, he hesitated, but by now Belinda was in no doubt and wanted him to go further. She raised herself up a little so that he could pull them down, and he took the initiative, kissing and nibbling her further along her body, on her tummy, the front part of her hips and the tops of her thighs.
He paused again, as if unsure whether he should go further, and she whispered, ‘Go on,’ while opening her thighs in encouragement.
Soon Alistair’s head was above her pubic mound, and his tongue persuasively searching between her thighs, and Belinda gasped as she felt his heat tickling her, dipping inside her like a searchlight, gently probing and exploring her pussy lips, flicking at her clit and all the nerve-endings surrounding it. She opened her thighs wider and he readjusted, placing his hands – now positively hot – under each buttock and lifting her off the mattress, so that his tongue was free to explore her more deeply. And with every kiss she felt herself warming, with every flick of his tongue she felt her will softening, and every time he scored a direct hit on her clit she felt herself quietly exploding. Even though the air was bitterly cold, she could feel warmth spreading from his tongue to her pussy and further outwards across her body. It was as if she’d been trapped under an avalanche and Alistair was rescuing her: breaking through the ice, digging out the snow, warming her with his very breath.
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