Keep Dreaming

 Tags: NSFW, Giantess growth, Muscle growth, breast expansion, beautification, reality, systemic racism

We’re in the living room, and Kiara is growing, and she asks if I’m okay.

 

She’s frowning, and there are tears in her eyes.  Those tears are for me.  As if it’s my life that’s ruined.  As if this isn’t my fault.  I tell her not to worry, that it’s not too late, but she shakes her head.  Then she moans, and grows again.  Her head is almost to the ceiling now.  The scent of her is filling the apartment, making it hard to think.  I watch her biceps swell bigger, watch her chest grow until each breast is as big as my entire upper body, watch the sadness fill her eyes.    

 

She doesn’t want this.  Not anymore.  But I can’t make it stop.  I’m apologizing and she doesn’t say she forgives me, because it doesn’t occur to her to blame.  She asks if a part of me is still dreaming.  I say, it must, it must be, but I can’t wake up.  She knows.

 

Dreams.  I was having them for months.  Kiara, my petite little fiancé.  But.  Bigger.  At first, I wasn’t ambitious about it, even in fantasy.  Making her just big enough that I could rest my chin on her head without bending, big enough that it was a challenge to sweep her into my arms.  Later, I made her my height, or a little less.  That seemed to make her happy.  Lately, she was big enough to step over skyscrapers.  

One thing was always the same in those dreams.  God, if she could’ve seen them.  What a one-dimensional character she became in my mind.  A chalk outline, colored in by unbridled and unstoppable lust.  She ached for me.  Yearned.  And at her size, she didn’t have to beg—she could take.

 

Then one night she’s holding me, and I’m not dreaming anymore.  Says I’d been talking in my sleep.  Moaning.  Kiara asks what I’d been dreaming about, and I’m too groggy to lie.  She laughs, and said yeah, I thought so.  

You kept calling me Goddess.

 

I’m embarrassed, but I want to know.  Does she like it, that word?  She doesn’t know.  But I can hear the coy smile on her lips, even if I can’t see it.  

I ask if she wants to try it on.

 

She pushes me, and I don’t resist.  Let her lay me back, let her stroke me.  In the dark I sense her stripping out of her panties, and I can smell how wet she is.  I’m still hard from my dream, from her hands on me, and Kiara crawls on top.  Tells me to say it.  Call me your Goddess.

 

I do, and I do, until I can’t because her thighs are clamped around my ears, and her body is rocking me against the headboard.  It isn’t words by then, but I’m still saying it.

 

I notice she’s was different, even that first night.  Of course.  But when the colors are inside the lines of your fantasy, you don’t question.  

Except one thing: she tastes different.  Darker, headier.  And there’s so much of it.  So I question, yeah, but only a little, because I’m trying not to drown, and I’m trying to worship.  And it’s good, it’s so good.      

 

It’s only later when I remember the impression of muscle she wasn’t supposed to have, as she squeezed my face between her thighs.  The weight that doesn’t belong to her, yet it forces me down.  Kiara is—was—tiny, and look, fifty inches or fifty feet, she’s my Goddess that night.  Even as she screams, clamps down too hard for me to breathe, and baptizes me from nose to navel, I don’t question.  Even when she lets me be the little spoon.

 

In the morning, I’m shocked and she’s serene.  Six whole inches, in one night!  She just shrugs, and tells me five four is a perfectly reasonable height for a woman, and I tell her that is hardly the point. 

 

She asks if I like it.  Then she poses for me.  Says she wants an informed opinion.  There are hard edges of new muscle when she folds her arms behind her back.  When she stands on tip toe, pretending to grow all over again, a shaft of sunlight hits her ochre cheek.  She smiles, because she knows it’s divine intervention.

 

Then she makes me take off my pants, right there in the kitchen.  Wants to see first hand how she’s won the argument.  Then she tells me to call her Goddess.

 

If you’re supposed to be a Goddess, how come you’re on your knees?

 

I think it, but I don’t say it.  This is Saturday.  It’s early on when we start, but by the time we tear ourselves apart from each other the sky is purpling and the cicadas are chirping.  Her stamina, my Lord.  Even when I flag she just lays beside me, moaning and touching herself and gently grinding against my hip.  A man can only take so much of that before he has to get involved again.

 

The dreams come back that night, stronger than ever.  Crisp, and real.  I swear I can touch her, taste her, smell her all over me.  Swear I can hear her voice too, and when I wake up in the dark I can still hear it because she’s whispering in my ear.  Something like.

 

You want me so much bigger, don’t you?  Want me to grow stronger, and sexier for you.  Yes, just like that.  Oh, I’m going to make you feel so good Kyle.  I promise. Just imagine it for me.  Just dream.

 

Then she laughs, and her voice is deeper, so much deeper.  She knows I’m awake.  Because it stopped.

 

The bedside lamp makes her shadow evil and enormous as she kneels over me.  She smiles, and says she’s sorry.  But she wanted it to happen again.  Wanted to see if she could control it.  When she stands, my head isn’t even up to her shoulder.  She wanted to be a proper Goddess for me, she explains.  None of this kind-of-pretty crap.  She wanted my dream to come true.  

Her arms are thick with muscle, her thighs toned and developed.  An Olympic athlete, but an impractical one—such a slim little waist, such wide and giving hips.  Her chest too big, too inviting.  Her hair’s longer.  Her skin clearer.  Her eyes unnaturally bright.

 

She hoped I wasn’t mad.  But, would I do her one favor?  Such a small thing?  

Would I call her Goddess?

 

My voice breaks with the weight of it.  So I say it twice.

 

Kiara is on me then, too fast, pinning me to the wall.  Lifting so she can kiss me without bending, and I’m saying it, I’m saying it over and over, and she’s smiling so big.  Says she wants to make me feel good, that she promises she’ll be gentle.  Her hand is on my cock.  Big, and soft, and impossibly good, and I’m lost in her, feel so tiny in her grasp.  I think how even if she was my size she would still be stronger than me, could probably still lift me like this, and then she’s laughing because I’ve already cum.

 

I’m sleepy, but she says she’s my Goddess, and I’m not done worshipping.  So I do, with lips, and tongue, and hands, until I recover enough to worship with other parts too.  She smells different.  Tastes different.  It isn’t thin and floral, the way it was when she was my sweet little Kiara.  Goddess is like a freshly tilled field after the first thunderstorm of spring, when dark things beneath it first begin to stir.  Goddess is the Earth.

 

I want to take her to breakfast on Sunday.  Then I want to take her to brunch.  Then the moon is rising, and I’m taking my first steps of the day anywhere other than the bedroom or the bathroom.  Kiara follows, ducking under the doorframe, the floorboards creaking under her feet.  Even a Goddess needs to eat.  The fridge is nearly empty, so dinner is a foraged patchwork.  She takes me straight to bed after.  Wordlessly, she takes the last bit of my stamina, all I can willingly offer.  Then she lets me lie still as her giant hands take everything else.  Then I can’t keep my eyes open.  She wishes me sweet dreams.

 

Monday dawned, and the woman beside me was too big for the bed.  She wanted to celebrate how she could rest her palm on the ceiling, how my head didn’t even reach her thumb-thick tits.  But my phone was dead, and we’d missed our alarm.  We hadn’t gone grocery shopping so there was no coffee.  Kiara could hardly fit in the shower, never mind her business casual.  I drove too fast while she hugged her knees to her chest, hunched over in our hatchback.  I dropped her off, then got chewed out for a no-call no-show.  

But Kiara’s day was worse.    

Security admitted that, yes, she resembled the employee in question.  Carefully checked their records, confirmed that, yes, Kiara Johnson works here, but is clearly listed as four ten in the employee database and not as some freakish amazon, huh, what do you know.  She was patient, mindful not to raise her voice, the same way she’d walked on eggshells around authority her whole life, but someone called the cops anyway.  

Things went downhill quick from there.  I was her phone call, but I didn’t learn that until I found my phone between crumpled sheets, and even then it had to charge before I saw the voicemail.  At least she had a cell to herself, she laughed, and her sad smile filled my rearview mirror as she tried to make herself small in the backseat.

 

She asked me not to dream tonight.  Begged me.  But I’m weak.

 

Another spurt, and head smacks into the ceiling.  Kiara winces, and holds my hand.  Tells me it’s going to be alright.  But I’m awake, and she’s still growing.  I can’t make it stop.  And she says it’s okay, that I’m going to be okay.

 

I always found her attractive, I tell her.  Even when she was tiny.  She says she knows.  Even as she’s swelling past ten feet, and her body is developing into a parody, the purest distilled essence of male want.  She asks if I still do.  Find her attractive, she means.  But I don’t answer, because we both know it’s a nonsense question.  Like asking if up is up.

 

She picks me up.  She’s sitting on the floor now, and she spreads me out across her lap.  Still trying to comfort me.  With those giant hands, with that body that is paradoxically soft and firm, thin and powerful.  I’m sorry, I say.  I’ve done this to her.  The fantasy is too strong.  I can’t pick reality anymore.  She just laughs, and shushes me, and runs that enormous hand between my thighs.  Cups me.  Tells me to say it for her.  One more time.

 

Goddess.

 

She moans softly, and hugs me closer, squeezing the breath from me, taking it like a little tribute.  The first of many, I think, but I still don’t know where that thought came from.  I don’t recognize her smell at all anymore.  It’s fecundity and the first blood of summer, and she asks if I want Goddess to make me feel good.  I say I do.  Her fingers are so delicate as they strip me.  Her fingers are so delicate as they take me between thumb and forefinger, and she’s stroking me, and I’m gasping for air.

 

Goddess asks how I want it.  In your mouth, please Goddess.  If I’m worthy.  It’s so high above me, getting higher all the time.  Goddess leans back against the wall.  Invites me to climb.  Past the chiseled stone of her twelve-pack, between breasts larger than her head.  Leaving a trail of eagerness on her torso as I struggle up her too-perfect body, and another as I slide back down again when my grip fails.  She smiles that sad smile.  And helps me ascend.  

Her mouth is so sweet and good on me.  Her tongue, between my legs, easily forcing them apart.  On my thighs and my balls and the base of my cock.  She’s growing too fast now, but I can’t stop.  I’m thrusting.  The fantasy is too strong.  When I call her Goddess for the last time, my voice doesn’t break.

 

She sets me on the couch, and pulls the blanket over me.  Pats me on the head.  She barely manages to crawl out the door, and I watch as another growth spurt hits, the strongest one yet, then she’s as tall as the house.  

I want to follow her.  I know I can’t.  

She bends, puts her face as low as she can, and looks at me through the window.  She smiles, but there’s something else in that smile now.  Something I don’t recognize.

 

Keep dreaming, she tells me.

 

She’s growing again.  So Kiara stands.  And walks into the night.