My Tiny Ferocious Lover

We met in college. I imagined I was straight, and she taught me otherwise, approaching me brazenly on a frat house dance floor and peremptorily cupping my sweaty breasts and sticking her tiny tongue in my mouth. I was drunk—the refuge I sought when trying to explain what happened through the night after that when I woke to find her curled against my body the next morning.

It was a ballsy move, if I may use the term, not least because I was legitimately twice her size. She was elfin—perhaps five feet, and not much past a hundred pounds. I not only towered over her, but our relative proportions made us seem to me like two different species. Honestly, I felt like a monster compared to her. Letting college boys paw me, I felt feminine, even voluptuously sexy. When her little hands sought my tits under my loose cable-knit sweater (no bra—I was feelin' it), I felt like a manatee, a blob. That, even more that the fact that this girl I only knew in passing from my English classes was dry-humping me in front of a roomful of people I knew significantly better made me too stunned to resist. And then I didn't want to, as her assured, deft movements and her courageously lustful caresses in the dark, in the thrumming music, made my mind disconnect. I went with it, in other words.

And when, both tingly drunk, we tumbled into my dorm bed (my roommates blessedly out of town for the weekend), her brazenness there left me...simply...helpless. She was tiny, but she was experienced—and she knew she'd found what she wanted, an inexperienced, drunk, sexually adventurous (in theory) college girl. I was pale, flabby putty in her nimble little hands.

After that first night, I slouched through campus, avoiding her eyes, or the imagined eyes I thought I felt on me on the quad. When she spoke to me again, in class, it was noncommittal, and I thought I was just another dim, stereotypical, sheltered college girl in her memory—until, sharing a poetry book since she'd forgotten hers—her wee pinky sought out the cleft between my thumb and forefinger, and I heard nothing the professor was saying for the next half hour, when she (Danielle was her name) led me dazedly through the quad to her off-campus apartment, shut her bedroom door behind us, and ravaged me for about ten hours straight. (I'm dripping just thinking about this, in case that enhances your reading experience.)

I wasn't her girlfriend—Danielle didn't have one of those—but we made love (always at her effortless beckoning) some half-dozen times in the next two months. Then we drifted, as college hookups do. I stroked myself to her memory (often), before moving on to other lovers—men and women (although the women were always furtive.)

After graduation, I got married. Then I got divorced. The whole process took about three years. Then I saw Danielle at a bar.

She seduced me with ridiculous ease. She—now an associate professor of poetry—drove me to her house. (Here, I'm dripping again—don't want anyone to get bored.) In her bed, she was rougher than I remembered, her still-tiny hands grasping, twisting, thrusting inside my heedlessly sopping cunt always instants before I imagined, and harder. She kissed me with her thin, birdlike lips like little punches.

And then she started to punch me.

At first, her little balled fists weren't even registered—I thought them just an extension of her grasping caressing pawing. Then she did it again, while I was on my stomach, her tiny paws making a soft but sharp thwack on my ass, then my hips. "What..." I said, once I realized, then felt another, as I felt her fingers slide inside my pussy, and her thumb grasp for purchase at the entrance to my asshole. "What?" I said again, in something like distress. "Shhh," Danielle said, saucily, as she inserted her digits—in both places—deeper. "I've missed you...and that sexy, chubby ass." I was stunned into silence. Even at our most passionate, she'd never done these things, said these things. "I've got you right where I want you," she purred/growled in my ear, her little pale body now draped over me as she dug in with her hand.

I could have thrown her off easily. I'd only gotten plumper, while Danielle seemed as birdlike as ever, her years lending her an angularity even more delicate than before. I didn't. Instead I came harder and wetter than I ever had in my life. I let out what could only be described as a scream as she fingered me, and heard a voice I didn't recognize moan, "Fuck me! Fuck me! Fucking rape me, you cunt!," as my hips humped the bed as I hurled my cunt and ass back into her invading little hand.

After I came (I genuinely have no idea how many times), I felt her on me fully, her weight barely registering on my sweating, heaving bulk. "I will," she said, breathlessly. You're mine now." I swear I came then, even just at her words. She rode out my convulsions, then rolled off me and, when I next felt her touch, she was placing a soft cloth gag gently into my gaping mouth. I took it, she tied it.

And then the night really began.

*********

When she gagged me, I smiled.

We'd played around with bondage in college a bit. Dabbled, you might say. Since she was always just a feather over half my size, there should have been a lot of acquiescence on my part so she could get the gag, the blindfold, the soft, thick ropes she always had coiled in her bedside table around my wrists, or my ankles. But, from that first night, my body simply knew she was in charge. I could have thrown her across the room, flipped her on her tummy and pinned her arms down to plunge my face into her ass, or simply smothered her with my bulk. But, honestly, from the first touch of her thin, hot hands under my shirt on the dance floor, the thought never occurred to me. Not once.

There are just some people who own you. Own your body. Turn you to melting butter, to honey at their caress. Or their fistful of your hair in their hand. That was Danielle. A contradiction, she was a tiny, rough-hewn townie who had a gift for writing poetry. She tossed down shots into her munchkin body until she didn't—and then used the calculated courage to impose her will. Especially on bi-curious, inexperienced fat girls like me. She told me she'd fucked the occasional boy, and even enjoyed it. But her passion was for women. Especially women she could turn to jelly, to butter, to honey. Women like me.

So when, after not having seen me for three-plus years, she first finger fucked me, then pulled out a gag from that night table (the same one from college, I noticed), it was like she'd known I'd be at that bar that night. She couldn't, of course. In town for an improbable business trip, I'd stopped into an old haunt for a drink. When she appeared, it was, again, like I'd somehow walked right into her confident little plan. I was helpless against it. And her.

She gagged me, then kissed my gagged, unprotesting mouth, saying teasingly, "I have neighbors. You still come like an animal." I felt like I'd come again just from her saying it. She rolled me over, me aiding her with abandon, and then—that table again—pulled out rope. I swear it looked the same, too. I watched her work, her tiny, bobbing tits in my face as she took first one wrist, then the other, and bound them to her solid, oaky bedframe. I moaned when she tied the last one tight and waited until she returned to straddle me and look into my eyes. I tried to express the complete surrender in my heart, my body with my eyes. I felt tears of—what? I still don't know, but I tried to blink them away before she bent her face to mine and licked them away. Then she kissed my bound mouth again. Then she smiled. Then she wiggled her way up my helpless torso until her tiny, sparsely-haired cunt was right over my face.

I remembered it. I recalled its deep, rosy pink, its folds—her labia surprisingly full and long for someone so small—the tight, naked protuberance of her hot red clit. I felt, as always, like I could see it pulse under my gaze. Her scent. Oh, god. Oh, god, her smell. Raw and—dusty. Like the street after rain. Like a—oh, God. Just to remember. Just to catch the scent, the barest scent of her cunt as she, with her no-nonsense way, thrust herself down on my bound mouth.

I moaned, I screamed through my gag, and I knew she knew I was begging, pleading for my mouth, my tongue to be free so I could plunge myself into her. God, I wanted to slurp her, lick her, fucking devour her. Her tiny, hot cunt in my face, grinding into my mouth, my nose, my eyes. Oh god. Oh god.

I knew she was smiling, grinding on top of me. I knew she'd let me have what I wanted. When she wanted.

But never before.