Despite the panic and terror that had subsumed her earlier in the evening, Amy found sleep without much difficulty. Once the anxiety, and the physical illness that it created, had abated, all that was left was an overwhelming exhaustion. In the recesses of her mind, Amy knew that the problems would just be there for her again when she woke up and was under no delusion that resting at this juncture would “fix” anything. But her depleted mind and body both demanded recompense for having been put through the emotional wringer, and Steve was safe where he was on the pillow.

Once sleep had fully claimed her, Amy began to dream. It was her wedding night once again, Stephen standing across from her in his tuxedo with a lopsided grin underneath that messy mop he called a hairstyle. They kissed to seal the marriage, the applause raining down on them from the congregation within the church. As Amy’s lips separated from Steve’s, she could taste a faint, metallic flavor. Licking her lips, she knew instantly it was blood. She looked over at Steve, and it appeared that her kiss had taken a chunk out of his lower lip. Instead of being upset or in pain, however, he laughed it off and grabbed her hand, leading her down the aisle as onlookers tossed rice and flower petals in their wake.

Instantly they were transported from the church to the wedding venue, an old courthouse long since converted for public entertainment usage. Amy found herself standing in front of the three-tiered wedding cake, the wedding dress train having been discarded and her heels having been cast off for more practical attire. But where was Steve? She didn’t want to cut the cake without him. The attendees would not be denied, however, howling and cajoling for her to take the first slice. She obliged, cutting a piece from the top of the cake. The piece that had the miniature couple on it.

By the time it was on her plate, however, the woman in the miniature couple was gone. What was left was a miniaturized version of her husband in his tuxedo, smiling up at her with all the charm and guile she had fallen for time and time again. Dream logic taking over, she immediately went to put the slice of cake back, believing this would magically reverse the process. But the cake was gone, as were the onlookers. It was just the two of them.

Still smiling, the mini-Steve looked up at her from his vantage point on top of the cake slice and said, “Ames, please, I want this.” Instinctively, she knew what he was asking her to do, the dream having pushed her in this direction from the very start.

“No you don’t,” she responded with desperation. “You don’t know what you’re asking. You’ll...you’ll die…you’ll die...in me…” she trailed off practically in a whisper.

“Ames, please…” Steve repeated. As though she were being compelled by some undeniable, divine force, she watched as her hand moved of its own accord, the silver fork slipping underneath Steve and lifting him upward. She knew that she should stop, that she should do something, do ANYTHING, but it was as though she were a mere bystander to the tragedy her body had decided to go through with. She felt the brief adhesive stickiness of the lipstick as her lips separated, her mouth opened, and the fork drew ever closer. As it had with countless other meals, her tongue slid outward slightly to usher the fork’s contents (my husband, she thought with panic) into her mouth.

Her lips sealed around the fork as she drew it out of her mouth, the fork being absent its passenger as he was deposited onto her tongue. Her mind registered the oddity that there was no flavor of icing, despite Steve having ostensibly been picked up from a cake. She tasted only his skin, as she had so many times when they laid together. She felt her tongue press upward against the palate of her mouth, the first step in moving something backward to the throat. She felt Steve’s small body being forced ever backward, until the muscles at the top of her throat seized their prize. She swallowed, an audible gulp accompanying it and a faint sigh escaping her lips as her mouth opened once more. She knew in the back of her mind that one cannot really “feel” food once swallowed (barring the occasional very hot or very cold beverage), but in the dream, she imagined she could. Her neck muscles bulged ever so slightly outward as her husband was pushed down beneath her collarbone, soon to be dropped into a pit of no return. She thought she could feel the motions in her stomach, just under her left breast, as Steve was deposited into his final resting place.

For all the strange contents of the dream, the true oddity came at the end, when she felt her lips curling up into a satisfied smirk. She found that she was enjoying it, feeling the faintest tickling sensations around her labia, igniting a small fire within her that seemed to radiate directly from her stomach down to her loins. She was in that hazy, between state of partial, hypnotic consciousness at this point, her hand snaking downward and her fingertips finding her clitoris with practiced ease.

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Glancing once more upward to confirm that his wife remained asleep, Steve grabbed a hold of the t-shirt near the shoulder, finding scaling the fabric to be remarkably easy. It was certainly a more gradual slope, with better handing and footing than that rope dangling in the center of the gymnasium in high school. Once up on her shoulder, he took in the new vista with deep wonder and satisfaction. Downward, he saw the twin peaks of her breasts, rising up from her chest to press against the baggy t-shirt. The t-shirt was so big on his petite wife that it almost covered up the black basketball shorts he could see further down. He took in the pale lengths of her legs, culminating in two socked feet pointing toward the ceiling. He smiled as he recalled her tendency to wear socks into bed, perpetually complaining that her toes were ice cubes under the tyranny of his preferred room temperature of 65 degrees Fahrenheit. Those feet looked cute and dainty from here; in fact, Amy had always been on the relatively small side, somewhere between a women’s size 6.5 – 7 shoe depending upon the type and brand. He knew that this angle was deceptive, however. That dainty little foot could have blocked out the sun when it was coming down on him like a collapsing skyscraper earlier this evening.

Upward, he could see the graceful curve of her neck, her small, rounded chin seeming to be a gateway to the expanse of her cheeks on either side. He could barely see it from this angle, but he knew if he climbed upward, he would see the cute little mole high on her left cheek, almost near her eye. She had once proposed lasering it off, an idea he shot down vehemently. It added to her beauty, in his mind.

Steve continued his hike below Amy’s neck, finding the collar of the t-shirt with ease. It was so baggy on her, there was already a large enough hole protruding for him to slip in under. He shot one more furtive glance at Amy’s face, just catching her licking her lips. The arousal at seeing her tongue poke outward and make the sweep of her lower lip was immediate. He briefly harbored the concern that she was about to awaken, but she immediately slipped back into a deep sleep. Reassured, he slid under the collar of the t-shirt into Amy’s world.

The light filtering through the fabric above lent a dim glow to the area around him. The first thing he noticed was the scent of her perfume, that sweet floral aroma with a hint of lavender. He knew from when they used to get dressed for work together in front of the mirror that the light spritz would have been targeted right where he was standing, below her collarbone and above her breasts.

The second thing he noticed was the warmth. Inside of the t-shirt, the insulation of Amy’s body heat made the whole area noticeably warmer than outside. Steve took a moment to appreciate his surroundings. The fine, nearly invisible hairs over Amy’s body were much more noticeable at his current size, seeing as how they almost came up to his knees. Underneath his feet he took in the sight of the faint smattering of freckles that adorned the top of Amy’s chest. A casual observer would not even see them unless they were deliberately seeking them out from a creepily close vantage point. He knew that there were matching sets of barely perceptible freckles high on her cheeks, just below her eyes.

Of course, the view that dominated the landscape was Amy’s breasts, moving gently upward and downward as she breathed. The rhythm was almost hypnotic. Steve knew he didn’t have long, and wasted no more time appreciating the little things, gingerly striding toward Amy’s breasts so as to avoid notice. After taking his first few steps, he deliberately waited a few moments just to see if his movements were felt at all. With no discernible change in Amy’s position or breathing, he resolved to keep going.

The navy blue bra belonged to what Amy called her “Practical Collection,” a line of understated undergarments employed for functional use as opposed to the lacy, flashier ones she donned for social occasions or their evenings together. He knew from fumbling with the clasps on this particular bra that there were in fact two hooks on the elastic pressing against her back, and he was under no illusions about being able to do anything about that at his size. This would have to suffice to scratch the itch for now.

Amy laying on her back, however, avoided stretching the bra to its limits, and Steve observed a looseness around the cups. Walking between the two mounds, he found yet another aspect of Amy’s anatomy to marvel at in his current size. The changed perspective was both humbling and endlessly captivating. He knew that Amy’s B cups were not the type of large, pendulous breasts that interested other men. Hell, her breasts were even small in comparison to her best friend Allison’s full C-bordering-on-D cups. But at his current size, the top of his head didn’t even make it halfway to the peak. And besides, he had never taken issue with Amy’s breast size before. Not when the rest of her body was so flawless, and certainly not when her bubble butt looked as gorgeous as it did. He was more of an “ass man” anyway.

He made his way around to the top of the right cup, prodding at the seams to test the tensile strength. His quick assessment was that he would be able to slip under the edge with minimal issue. But with the heightened sensitivity of this area, would that be pushing his luck too far? Biting his lip, he considered for a moment before his libido won out once again. He had come this far; he would just be extra careful. With that, he laid down onto his stomach and shimmied under the edge of the bra.

Immediately he noticed the silky smoothness and pillowy softness. Sure, the rest of her skin was perfectly soft and smooth, but here he was ENVELOPED in it. He had casually fondled this same breast countless times before, never taking note of the delightful, springy buoyancy of it, the unmarred skin culminating in the areola. He continued to army crawl his way upward even though visibility was almost entirely non-existent at this point. He soon felt the telltale ring of gooseflesh that marked the outer edge of her areola. He felt the texture change under his skin to slightly more wrinkled and firmer, his hands reaching out in front of him and eventually reaching the elevated nub that he knew to be her nipple.

It was almost a religious experience. Despite the lightless environment, he felt almost as though he and Amy were one in that moment. The tactile sensation of her nipple on his body, coupled with the fading scent of her perfume layered on top of a faint odor of sweat, was nothing short of immersive. He ran an appreciative hand across the nipple, imagining that he could probably actually slip his arm inside at his current stature.

Amy had not yet awoken, but that did not mean that her body was unaware of his presence. He felt a faint shuddering beneath him, the breast jiggling slightly with the motion. He felt the skin underneath him shrivel, the nipple growing harder right under his hands. He had but a mere moment to appreciate Amy’s unwitting arousal, however, before her subconscious took matters into its own hands…quite literally. He could not see what was happening from where he was currently, but Amy’s body had certainly registered his movements, and at his size they weren’t quite arousing so much as…ticklish.

Steve suddenly felt an immense pressure above him as he was pressed into the breast, temporarily being unable to breathe as his face was buried in soft skin. He knew what had happened: Amy was scratching an itch, and that meant he knew instinctively what was coming next. He winced as he felt a fingertip through the fabric layers of the bra and t-shirt, digging into the skin and bringing him with it, before it rapidly moved from side to side. His body was rolled uncomfortably to the left, then to the right, then to the left with the motion of the fingertip. The combined pressure and friction resulted in a body-wide burn, a brief but nonetheless intense escalation of heat and pain. It was over almost as soon as it began, but he imagined that if he could see his body right now, he would look as though he was sunburnt all over.

Steve resolved to move a little more carefully in fleeing this area, marveling once again at the softness of Amy’s breast as he sidled backwards on his stomach, slipping once more out from under the edge of the bra. He knew he should head back to the pillow. After that, Amy could wake up any second, and if he was caught here, he knew she would not trust him again for quite some time.

And yet, her breathing still hadn’t changed. She appeared to remain in a deep sleep. And based on her reaction to his casual innuendo earlier, she wouldn’t be feeling playful and comfortable with his current size for a while, if ever. He might not have another chance like this again. He took a deep breath and began walking downward toward the depression in the skin that he knew hid Amy’s bellybutton. As he traversed her ribs, leaving the breasts behind him, a loud groan startled him before he realized what was happening. He felt a squelch and a faint rumbling as Amy’s stomach protested its emptiness. That’s right, he thought, we never got to eat dinner. And she threw up. Poor thing must be starving. Wonder if she’s dreaming about a meal?

He continued his trek downward, seeing the hem of the shorts just past Amy’s bellybutton. As he reached it, he took one final look behind him, considering. If she wakes up, there’s no defense to this. Falling down her shirt when she sat up while “trying to get her attention” is almost believable. This…this could only be one thing. Point of no return, now. He grimaced as he wrestled with his conscience. Wasn’t this more than a little violative of Amy’s privacy? Wasn’t this a betrayal of trust? Conversely, hadn’t he seen and touched this exact area hundreds of times before? If a husband wasn’t allowed to touch, then who was?

Yet again, the arousal-driven, flimsy rationale of “who knows if I’ll ever get this chance again” prevailed. This wasn’t just sightseeing; this was the culmination of decades of fantasizing, of countless times awaking from wet dreams wishing it were truly possible. It was all still a bit surreal, but this would be a life-affirming moment unlike any he had experienced since prevailing in the MicroMD case. Steve had now talked himself into it. He took a deep breath and slid his way under the elastic waistband of the shorts.

If underneath Amy’s shirt was noticeably warmer than the ambient room temperature, this was another level entirely. The air wasn’t just warmer, it felt humid to boot. Where the oversized t-shirt overlapped with the shorts, there was even less light to see under. But he could see small openings further down her thighs where the shorts ended. Visibility was satisfactory, in his estimation.

Immediately he was confronted with the sight of Amy’s panties which, like the bra, were more of a casual, utilitarian affair than a seductive one. No real lace or patterning to speak of, just a solid navy blue comprised of breathable cotton fabric. As he walked over her pelvis, he could faintly feel the beginnings of stubble through the fabric under his feet. In keeping with her obsessive cleanliness, Amy kept the area thoroughly waxed. But once again, even small hairs were much more noticeable from this vantage point.

As he reached the top of her thigh gap, he took note of the difference in texture on the cotton fabric beneath him. Here, it was almost imperceptibly pillowing slightly, a byproduct of the constant wear, chafing, and dampness of the region overall. The scent, however, was utterly intoxicating. A faint hint of her body wash lingered, trapped under the panties and emanating upward from her smooth, bare thighs. Entirely more noticeable, however, was the scent of her nethers. That beguiling and bewitching combination of sweat, pheromones and bodily fluids. Even the faintest whisp of stale urine after her full day at work, which Steve didn’t mind at all. Amy spent so much time and energy maintaining utmost cleanliness that he very much enjoyed when she was a little dirty. There was something deliciously scandalous about it. He knew she would be embarrassed if he were to ever mention it, and the verboten nature of it made it even more arousing. Breathing deeply, he felt himself grow fully erect.

Yet again, he was not lacking for handholds and traction on his descent, entering into a controlled slide down the front of Amy’s underwear. He felt the pure, radiant heat coming off of her then, knowing he now stood in front of a metaphorical and literal hotspot on his wife’s body. He couldn’t stop here. Not when he was so close. Not when his arousal had reached its peak.

It was here, however, that the undergarments finally stymied his efforts. The elastic seal around Amy’s pussy was strong. Putting both arms and his back into it, he pulled upwards, finding that he could barely create enough room to slip a hand under, let alone his entire body. He was able to arrive at one inescapable conclusion: even if he made it under, there was functionally no chance of getting out without Amy’s help. He threw his head back and groaned. So, so fucking close, he complained inwardly.

Well, no reason I can’t enjoy what I have while I’m here, he thought. He reached out tentatively, appreciatively, as his hands traced the contours of Amy’s labia, finding that from where he was standing, her clit was almost out of reach even with both hands stretched above his head. His hand brushed over the entrance to her vagina, feeling the epicenter of the damp heat that suffused his surroundings. He continued to move his left hand up and down across Amy’s pussy as his right hand found its way into his boxer shorts and around his member.

He was beginning to stroke when there was a sudden disturbance. The clothing around him jostled, almost causing him to lose his footing. He was pushed backward as two rigid lumps snaked down the front of Amy’s panties, stopping above her clit and moving in a circular motion. Softly and gently at first but growing increasingly firm as they continued. He watched in almost childlike wonder. A front row seat to sweet, innocent Amy getting herself off. This is too good. Too fucking good. It was over almost as soon as it started, however, evidently being a subconscious reaction to the slight stimulation his hands had been providing moments earlier, almost like when she had scratched the itch on her breast moments ago.

He knew Amy, and he knew that this motion meant that she was in between sleep and awareness. That meant that he had maybe two minutes at best, 30 seconds at worst, before her eyes were going to pop open for a moment. Even if they ultimately closed again and she drifted back off to sleep, he knew that in that brief moment, she would almost certainly glance over to his pillow. I have to get back. Now. With a heavy reluctance, Steve made haste along the inside of Amy’s pale, silky smooth thigh and slipped out the bottom of the shorts, relying upon the diminished sensation in the loose skin over her kneecap as he scrambled up and over to the other side of her leg, sprinting back toward the pillow. Like a runner sliding into home base, he tumbled down the crater left by his head earlier that day just in time to see Amy’s right eye crack open, the pupil immediately shifting to glance at him. He waved with a grin as she shifted her position slightly, letting out a soft, drowsy groan. He was busy watching to see if she rolled over, but as he felt her eye continuing to linger on him for just a moment, he could’ve sworn she licked her lips once more before it closed…