Cumming Awake

But in the meantime, rest well. And dream of large women.

The Man in Black (aka Westley) ~ The Princess Bride

Somewhere between my sleep-heavy lids and the cushioning lull of the mattress, I enter a machine jungle. Wandering through an ever-more-enclosed space, the gleaming Bridgeport chrome label on perfectly-preserved ancient mills bolted into cement floors guide my narrow way into a…

Library? Mills and lathes line an aisle spearheaded by a rusted green drill press taller than me; the checkered aluminum walls behind the machinery contain shelves lined with books, and the shelves themselves are bookended with…

Women. Two large women. Ruben would have considered them overfed. I just consider them.

Cartoonishly round, alienly white.

Facial features indiscernible except for a slash of red on each face — one matte and pouty, the other glossy and smiling (without teeth?), both telegraphing confused intent.

I see no more than a shock of white-blonde, tresses moving with inhuman Pixar animation, before they are…

On me. Surrounding me. Huge and round-bellied and heavy-breastedly unnatural in their naked weightlessness, they smoosh me between them but I feel no pressure or suffocation; instead, their accosting has split me into two versions of myself: one watching from outside the tableau, the other being strangely absorbed into it.

Outside-Me watches as Absorbed-Me uses her teeth on the fat flesh protruding from between the glossy-red woman’s thighs. Biting hard enough to leave marks on the dream-being’s labia, there is no feeling of tegument against my mouth. It is like biting into un-wet water. Textureless paper. This woman – is it a woman? – is made of air and imagination. A solid form of nothingness.

I dig my fingers into matte-red’s thighs, press my thumbs against glossy-red’s un-real-ly white flesh…

…only to neither dimple nor dent.

There is no discernable effect on either of the machine-world librarians, but I find myself clenching my own stomach in rippling waves of hold-back while Absorbed-Me’s frustrated ministrations to Large Nothingness are felt in muted-bruise intensity across my own flesh. The harder Absorbed-Me tries, the lighter the feather-touch of reality.

Fingers dig caressing-soft into my hips, a mouth latches on to my clit, suckling like a low-current stream over stone. My thigh muscles try to clamp closed around an unseen that holds them — shaking, straining, sore — open.

I feel the orgasm building: in the small of my back, in the backs of my thighs…

The world goes white.

…and I open my lids to white sunlight seen through pleasure-blurred eyes as – shuddering into the heat of the morning sun – I cum awake.