No Rest for the Wicked

After a few hours of trying to reorganize his room and feeling satisfied he had made a dent, Morris decided to grab a shower, cleaning the day from his flesh. Shower done and wrapped in a towel, he popped into the living room to give his mother a goodnight kiss before turning in.

Back downstairs, he pulled on some clean underpants and climbed into bed. Connecting his phone to the charge cord on his night table, he swiped it. Usually he and Tom or sometimes Sly would banter back and forth, but there was an odd missive from Tom, it just read, ‘Sweet dreams.”

Morris typed, “Are made of these,” as a response before setting the alarm and putting his phone down on the table. What a weird day. Sleep came quickly.

In his dream, it was vague, kind of hazy at first, but he knew he was small, like very small, maybe just a few inches tall. The broad open space about him seemed immense, like the inside of some gigantic room, except the décor was very pink and girly. It took him a moment to orient himself as the dream became more and more lucid. He was seated on a warm, smooth, rounded surface, like skin, a light ultra-fine down on the firm unblemished flesh. It was an ass, a girl’s butt he was sitting on, looking toward her feet, long legs together stretching out and away. Whoever the owner of the wonderfully shapely ass upon which he sat appeared as if they had kicked off their blankets and was completely naked lying face down on a bed.

“What the hell?” he murmured, pushing himself up onto his feet. Turning, he looked up toward the head of the gigantic person, just realizing he himself was naked. He laughed. Must be residual subliminal messages seeping out of his brain from what he had witness earlier in the day. Which way to go? Snickering, he walked a few steps over the gorgeous bum in the direction of the enormous woman’s feet, trying to sneak a peek at the juncture of her butt and thighs without sliding down into the hollow. Unable to catch a glimpse at what wonders must surely lay nestled there, he turned back toward the woman’s head. Long dark hair pooled around the girl’s head on the pillow, obscuring her face so he couldn’t tell who it was. There was a faint scent of something flowery about her skin, a body wash or something that made her smell great. Who was she? He chuckled to himself, he meant to find out.

There was a slope and dip, two small depressions, dimples in the small of her back waist narrowing, a small channel in the center of her back. Getting low, he carefully eased himself down the slope of her ass, passed the dimples and into the small of her back. Whoever she was in magnificent shape. Her upper body moved in rhythm with the long deep breaths she was taking in. Following her spine, he began to walk up her torso toward her head. He wanted to know who this was.

“Mmm, that tickles,” said the woman dreamily, shifting a little. The motion minor to her but enough to cause Mo to lose his footing and tumble part way down her back. Getting back to his feet. Her voice sounded familiar, yet not. He frowned and again moved toward her head. She turned laterally, the sudden movement pitching him sidelong off her back where he landed uninjured in a fold of the plush blanket below.

She had rolled onto her side, back now to him, one leg still extended, the other bent at the knee and drawn up. From his landing spot he had a clear view of her bottom, near perfect from the angle. Given his size, he doubted he would be able to scale her from behind. Looking from her feet to her head, he decided his greatest chance at getting around to her front was to circle around her extended foot. Navigating over the crumpled sheet and blanket was definitely a chore, the difficult terrain, reminded him of trying to climb over snow as he moved around her foot, easily three time as long as he was tall. Moving up the inner portion of her leg, he passed her shin, then her thigh, coming to stop where her thighs came together. There was the honey pot, a tight, snug, delicate crease in her skin. Moving in close, feeling the heat radiating off of her skin, she shifted again, this time rolling toward her back, her leg moving over his head as she settled herself, arm down by her side, palm up, fingers partially separated.

He looked at her arm, then her body, wondering if he might be able to use the appendage as a means of getting onto top of her. Clambering over the blanket and sheet, he climbed into her open hand. He was just about to start up her forearm, when the hand beneath him moved, travelling upward. He dropped to his knee, panic gripping him as the ground rushed away. The hand was turning, he was losing his footing, sliding off the hand. Flailing, he landed on her stomach, rolling in a neat ball and stopping unharmed. “Tuck and roll,” he chortled, impressed with himself. The footing beneath him was uncertain, the rise and fall of her chest reminded him of trying to walk across the funhouse floor when it was shifting back and forth. From his new perspective, he looked up, her face still concealed by the tangled mess of hair. Gigantic breast were astounding, wondrously shaped, small nipples. Turning the other way, hip bones slightly padded, flat tummy, the swell of her mons crowned a neatly trimmed patch of hair. He grinned. Moving over the plain of her stomach, he moved onto the short hair, decadently shaped like a little lightning bolt. Getting down on hands and knees, he moved over the pubic hair. A shadow fell from above over him, him a rabbit seeing the wings of an eagle. Swiveling his head, he could see her hand descending rapidly, faster than he thought possible, covering him and pushing him against the flesh before he had opportunity to try and dive out of the way. The weight crushed him down against the immense genitals of the woman. Blackness greeted him.

He awoke in his own bed with a sudden start, like when you dream of falling and are woken when you hit the ground, breath coming in gasps, heart racing, sheets dampened by sweat. The room smelled faintly of flowers.