DISCLAIMER: ALL CHARACTERS HEREIN ARE OVER THE AGE OF 18. I do not condone any abuse of any kind IRL, and everything herein is just fantasy. Do not attempt to re-enact anything you read here.
Around him, darkness gave way to a strange, odd, swirling blue and purple light. The walls seemed like that you might see at an old fun fair, an optical illusion... and yet this seemed far less, and yet in a way far more, real.
Reaching out to touch the wall for a moment, as curiosity overtook him, it seemed as though no matter how close his hand got the wall was always a little further away. Pulling it back, he realized just how far he was leaning, and set his eyes back ahead.
Air brushed past his face, which brought with it a... wonderful scent. Every wonderful smell he could imagine seemed to come at his senses one at a time as he slowly crawled further and further. Christmas dinner, a real one, not like the ones his parents made these days. Cookies. The smell of his old bedroom. As the scents led him by the nose, his memories were tugged back to the fore.
The tunnel warped, swerved, and spun, but at the end was a small black hole... no, a door. Just like the one he had come through. As he grew closer, it creaked open, and light spilled through.
He shielded his eyes, slowly moving forward on his remaining hand, until he felt a soft but solid surface under his hand, and... he was out. Blinking against the light, which seemed to dim as he did to a nice, warm, relaxing tone, he rose to his knees and looked around.
He was in his bedroom. The one from the mansion. Except this one was fully furnished. Clean. The walls were painted, warm, the floor carpeted. The bed was no old, creaky, wrought iron victorian number but a plush, cozy-looking, and massive. The lights all worked, but were turned down low.
His feet sank into effortlessly soft, thick carpets which hugged his soles as he stood. Somewhere, the smell of cooking got his attention again, as he had barely eaten that day.
"It's all a dream..." he reminded himself, as he walked forwards, the hatch slowly and silently closing behind him.
Making his way into the hall, he passed room after room. Carl wouldn't have known it was the same house if he hadn't become so familiar with the structure. Every wall, every floor was almost as new. As he passed a door he peered inside. No ancient furniture covered in old sheets met his eyes, but rather a room full of if anything oversized furnishings. Oddly, the massive scale of the mansion made the larger-than-normal chattels seem suitably sized, and left him feeling oddly small.
He crept towards the staircase, and could swear he heard singing for a moment. There it was again, he noticed, perking up at the sound. An almost angelic voice was humming away somewhere downstairs.
Afraid to put any weight down in case an old board creaked, he plodded down the stairs, yet it seems the woodwork was just as refurbished as the rest of the home, and he was utterly silent. Still, it was hard to shake the feeling someone knew he was there...
As the old archway between the kitchen and sitting room passed, he saw a figure move, and a shadow from the light played across the murky hallway behind. He inched closer, and peered around the wall, at the person who was cooking that smell which now fully encompassed him.
She was... tall. Incredibly tall. It was hard to judge, but going by the odd, dream-world scale so far, he guessed she was at least eight feet. Her body was wide, too. Just as incredibly so. Her thighs were thick, and the bottom of the sweater barely tickled below the curve of her derriere, which barely creased across a lap which squished together as she moved from side to side, entrancingly.
She wore a grey sweater, with no backing, and seemingly nothing beneath, as her long thighs and legs below were bare. The woman seemed to be holding something in front of her, as whenever she moved her arms or turned to the side ever so slightly, something jutted out in front of her.
For some reason Carl couldn't quite place, she seemed familiar. As if he knew her...
Carl didn't realise he was now standing fully openly in the archway, staring agape at this giantess, until it was too late. He caught himself, and made to move back, but then for a moment, the figure paused.
Slowly, achingly slowly, she turned, and Carl was caught as if in the headlights.
"Hello there, dear," the figure spoke, in a voice which flowed like liquid caramel across her tongue and past her lips, and was just as sweet.
"M... mum?" he stammered, as he recognized what he thought was his mother's face.
The figure now rested its hand on an absurdly wide hip, her ample curves practically offering a shelf.
And those curves... now it was all too obvious what she had been carrying. Her breasts flowed forth from her neck and simply never seemed to end. Their plump, ripe, perkiness seemed at odds with their sheer scale. His eyes traced from her neckline down her cleavage, which stretched on and on, until the sweater came to a close just above where her nipples would be. Ample and full, they pressed together within the confines of the sweater in ways that was making his adolescent mind question its knowledge of the laws of physics. They seemed almost to vie for space, so
The sweater strained, even its forgiving knitted material seemed almost to groan under the effort of keeping such massive breasts contained. Despite being so full, so ripe, they flushed down to just above her waist, and he wondered how much of that was simply the work of the sweater, or were they simply that big?
"Sweetie, what's got you up so late?"
He tried to look her in the eyes, but it wasn't possible. She stepped towards him, and he stood there, frozen.
"Oh my, are you alright dear? You seem ever so pale..."
As she grew closer, and closer, his heart hammered in his neck. His mouth was at once too wet and too dry, and when he tried to swallow his throat wouldn't respond. At last, she towered over him, and he corrected his earlier estimate. She was closer to nine feet tall, and god only knew what her other measurements were. Whereas before he struggled to take his eyes off her breasts, now he struggled to see past them, as she bore down on him.
At last, her face came into focus, just visible over the valley of her tits. Two solid black, depthless eyes stared back down at him.
"Y... you're not my mother..." he said, almost silently, rooted to the spot in a mix of fear and other feelings his brain wasn't quite ready to process yet.
