Of Course Bigger Girls Can Be Littles, Too

Transcript

You come over to my apartment, unannounced. It's only been a few weeks since we started dating, but I've kept the invitation open, the door unlocked, in case you ever feel like stopping by. Everything is new and exciting, and there are things you still don't know about me, but you like the things you know so far.

I am older than you, which satisfies a kink you don't always admit to in public. I am fairly relaxed, but intense in the bedroom. I spend more time reading than drinking, but when we have gone out drinking, you spend the next morning sore and giggling about the terribly dirty things we did and said to one another.

I give good and frequent massages. I kiss you like the sun kisses the Pacific Ocean. My scent lingers in your hair after a date, so faint that you're not sure if it's my cologne or just the right pheromonal mixture of this new man in your life.

But there are things about me that, if they don't worry you, lend themselves to more ambivalent emotions. I was married at one time and now seem comfortably divorced, in no hurry to settle down again. Obviously that's fine for you.

You want that to be fine for you, for this to be as fun and light and frivolous as it has been. You tell yourself you don't need more than that, but you're torn. It is my older divorced vibe that makes me so easy to talk to and be around.

I've been through the tribulations of a marriage, a long relationship with ups and downs. I know myself better now, what I want from my partner, but also how to compromise and how to take things in stride. It makes me a good listener and you find yourself sharing more than you've previously admitted so early in a relationship.

A relationship. That word floats through your mind. We do have one, don't we? This started so casually and now you're letting yourself into my place, trusting that it won't be occupied by some other young conquest.

It hasn't been, yet. And if you're honest with yourself, you're quietly addicted to the expression on my face when I see you suddenly appear. Every time.

Every time you've surprised me in my home, my eyes light up and my grin is either wholesome and tender or mischievous and, obviously, in the mood. I've told you before, the years I was married make me just so grateful when someone good comes along in my life. I don't hide my feelings, and so far all my feelings have been on my sleeve, enamored of you, your energy, and the boundless affection you have to give.

You call me daddy, I call you my darling girl. But there is this other thing that troubles you, something quite separate from the ambiguous nature of our relationship. It's the thing I'm doing when you quietly slip into my apartment.

You can hear me murmuring in my office, speaking close to the microphone, starting and stopping, thinking about a line, then delivering it. I record sexy audios. Dirty audios? Oral smut? It's porn for the ear and the mind.

It's something of a hobby. Maybe something that could earn me a little money, someday, somehow. For now, it's just this.

This thing I do. And it's a thing you like, truth be told. A thing that clearly informs how I speak and act with you.

You know from personal experience that things I write about, the things I say into the microphone, are carnal acts I enjoy doing in real life. I am passionate about women's bodies. But it does make you self-conscious about your body.

How your body matches up to the nameless listener of my tales. Because to your mind, they are incongruous, your body and hers. She has a little pussy.

She has a tight ass. She is compact and dwarfed by my big, possessive hands. She is nearly broken by my fierce, overpowering lust.

And you, while your mind has certainly been broken by the things I've whispered in your ear, your body can withstand a lot more than that poor, tiny waif. You feel that there is a lot more of you to hold, but also more to get in the way. You are a bigger girl than the slender models on runways.

A different size than what cameras seem to adore. Your skin is not like theirs. And whatever hair my omniscient narrator is running his hands through, well, if none of these other traits align, you don't know what to think about your own.

You consider leaving the apartment. You don't want to interrupt my work, but you also don't want to sit here thinking about me thinking about her, whoever she is, with her teeny, tiny pussy and her perfect shampoo commercial hair. Ultimately, you do stay.

You stay quiet and set your purse down on my bed. You go to my bookshelf to find something you recognize, or something you've heard me gush about, but really, you're just giving your eyes something to play with while you listen to me in the next room, making love to the ears of so many anonymous listeners, women who can picture themselves inside my perfect partner. And then, there is a pause.

The pause grows, and you hear me shift, equipment move, and finally, the office door opens. The surprise on my face becomes a smile, becomes a warm, inviting look. You, standing at my bookshelf, want to go to me.

When I get that look, you feel safe and even sometimes, sexy, but not now. Self-doubt and insecurity have threaded iron wires through your guts and pulled them into painful knots. You find yourself feeling more like a stranger to me, and regret staying.

I see that in your eyes, and my smile melts into a firm line of concern. Oh, baby. What's wrong? You shake your head, and you can't believe you're doing this right now.

You feel the tears on your cheeks before you know you're crying, and suddenly you are hot all over, and not in a fun way, not in a steamy, passionate way, in a damp tea kettle left on the stove too long way. Steam isn't boiling out of your ears yet, but you feel the pressure building at the base of your skull, threatening a headache. Your instinct is to grab your purse from the bed and run out, but you tell yourself that would be crazy.

No, no, you're not going to call yourself crazy. But you feel a little crazed, a little panicked, and as all these wild emotions trade blows behind the flushed surface of your skin, one takes charge of the others. A dark, crimson anger.

Anger at yourself for ruining your own mood. Anger at me for stirring up these doubts. Anger at yourself again for being angry at me, and angry for being angry at all.

It's a vicious loop, and who knows how many times it will turn you around, and whether you can escape it. If you weren't so caught up in that internal struggle, you might have resisted me crossing the room to hold you. My thumb dabs softly at your tears.

One strong arm curls around your back. Two piercing eyes gaze down into your own. Breathe, I tell you.

Deep breaths. Slow breaths. In.

Out. It's okay. It's okay.

The kiss on your lips isn't forceful or romantic. It's soft. Reassuring.

My mouth to your mouth. My air to your air. Now both my thumbs wipe your tears away, and, softly, the tip of my nose passes back and forth against the tip of yours.

What's got my darling girl so worried, I wonder? It is easy to cling to me. You don't want to be weak, but you don't want to resist the warmth and protection that pours from my lips and eyes and arms.

So you wrap your arms around me and let out a big, breathless sob. It all pours out. You tell me what you've been thinking.

You tell me that you listen to the words I record and how it turns you on but also hurts your heart. You want to let go and be the dream I'm weaving here, but that's not you. You aren't small.

You aren't petite. You aren't a kitten. You aren't trim or lithe or slender or willowy or pale as the moon.

No, I agree. No, I can't see you gracing the opening credits of a Japanese cartoon while cherry blossoms dance through your hair. You're not the cheerleader type.

You're not a tiny cat girl I can slip into my coat pocket. You're right about that, honey. That's not the woman I'm holding in my arms.

My fingers sweep over your wet cheek and glide down to the nape of your neck. I take firm hold of your hair and press my mouth to yours. This time, it is not a simple touch.

My lips are firm and my tongue seeks yours like a snake after its mate. I taste you and moan into you. My body molds against yours and you feel it, the stiffness that threatens to penetrate every soft part of you.

Do you think, I whisper in your ear, that when I call my lover my little girl, that she's a little girl? I'm a man. I need a woman.

When I call you baby, are you a baby? No, you're my baby. Do you think when I compliment your cute little pussy that it's a teeny tiny itty bitty pussy? That wouldn't work for me.

There's no way you could fit my big daddy dick inside a teeny tiny itty bitty pussy. I do like it when you tell daddy you're scared you can't take it. But baby, we wouldn't be standing here right now if I thought you really couldn't.

You're my little honey. You're not my little honey. Are you a big girl? You're a grand girl.

You are, and here I step back to sweep my hand through the air, gesturing up and down at your figure. You are a work of art, erotic fiction made flesh. Your shape feels so good against me.

And I wouldn't have walked up to you all those weeks ago if I wasn't looking for this. For you. For all of you.

Every piece of you. Every pound of you. Every delicious curve under these taunting clothes of yours.

I'll call you whatever you want, but as a man with a dominant side and a kink for spoiling my mate, I do like calling you my baby girl. You're little to me because you are dear to me. I don't know why we use compact terms to describe the biggest things we feel, but it's not literal language.

Of course big girls can be littles too. And you are mine. I take your hand and lead you to the bed.

I sit you down and kneel so that I am looking up at you. If you were under 5 feet tall, or over 7 feet in heels, you would still be my little. If I had to look up at you like this all the time, I'd never regret the view.

My palms slide up your thighs and rest softly on your stomach. I'm older, honey, and that means I've learned a few things about women and about myself. The most important thing I've learned is that what feels good is different for everyone.

For me, the softness of your body, the way I can grab these curves, the way I know you can take what I give you, that turns me on. My hands rove higher to fill my palms with your breasts. Groping you over your shirt, I am shameless with my grin, like a boy locked inside a candy store without supervision.

You feel like what I want a woman to feel like. You feel solid, complete, a prepared dish. Not like you're waiting to take a breath or about to pass out because there are pieces of you missing.

And then my hands leave your tits. The hem of your shirt is rolled up. The walls fall and the ceiling slides into view as you bounce backward on the mattress.

Your vision is still spinning when my hands roll that shirt up to your collar and pop that front hook bra. Your tits spill out and I moan like a mountain lion crouching over his prey. My beard rasps against the heavy, naked pillows of your breasts and I fill my mouth with one undefended nipple.

I kiss you here and here and here and here and here and here and here. My hands rove over you, a man at play, squeezing and teasing and licking the soft, sensitive undersides of your breasts. Do you think I could get a decent titty fuck out of a petite princess, I ask? Don't get me wrong.

I think small tits are cute. I love them and I wouldn't shame a woman for any size bust. But when I think about you, I'm not in the mood for a delicate princess.

I want a full, unquestionable queen and all the delightful ways you can wrap me up inside you. I kiss between your tits and move down your trembling belly. I spend years in that downy landscape, making a home by your belly button, tongue tilling the earth, plowing fingertips over the furrows of stretch marks here and there, and all the while moving south, undoing your button and peeling away your pants from the full, mouth-watering thighs I crave.

Do you know why they say thick thighs save lives, I ask? Because no man has lived until he's pulled them apart, felt them nearly crush his head or wrap around his hips, never truly kissed a female body until he's sunk his teeth into this skin. I do.

I suck at the skin of your inner thighs, groaning like a monster. The pants come down to your knees, to your ankles, and I wiggle them until your shoes drop to my floor and the pants go with them. There's nothing to protect you now, I say.

Daddy's hungry, and you always prepare me such a full, hearty breakfast. Your panties are roughly pulled to the side, and then, on a whim, I just tear them completely. I hope you didn't like that bear too much, I say, but I've just decided that you're not leaving here today.

Through the torn panties, my tongue attacks your pussy. I kiss it like I'm cheating on your mouth, like this stolen moment will be the last time I can taste your sweetness, like I've been away at war for years and suddenly, unexpectedly, come home. There is no time to compose you a poem or promise sweet nothings in your blushing ears.

I need you now. I feast on your womanhood, lathering your plush lips with my warm, flowing saliva. My tongue ravishes you, leaving no inch untasted, no crevice unexplored.

My thumb spirals over your clitoris, and from my lips to yours, a deep rumble travels from diaphragm to throat to mouth to vagina, entering you, the sound of me growling, desperate to consume you. I want you to come with me, I say, when at last I rise from your dripping slit. In a daze, you take my hand.

I lift you effortlessly from the bed, letting you fall against me as I help free you from the tangled mess of your shirt and opened bra. You feel my cock through my slacks, hard and straining against the fabric, a dagger at an awkward angle. It makes walking a clumsy affair, but I don't mind.

I only smile at myself and you as I lead you to the bathroom and present you to the mirror. You are shy now, naked and vulnerable, but not naked alone for long. As I unbutton my shirt and pull my belt free of its loops, I speak into your ear.

Do you see that body, your body, in the mirror? I ask.