Clarity 1

His dream is always the same.

Perfect clarity. A Zen purity. The light is like candle light amplified to a higher power, soft yet bright, lending a dreaming quality to all it touches. His eyes feel the softness of her skin, the sheen of moisture on her lips, the gloss of her hair. He sees where her white thigh shades into the darker pillow folds of her labia, where soft brown becomes dark, then pink. Her strong, black, pubic hair shines with rich brown gleams. The warmth of her skin fills the air, intoxicating him. He is, as usual in this dream, a Lilliputian man one-inch high, maybe one and one half inches on tiptoes. He is small. Lydia is huge, a sleeping giantess resting on satin sheets, a female Gulliver to this Lilliputian man. He loves Lydia. Standing on the bed beside her, he spreads his tiny hands on her flanks, feels her breathing, long and slow. Perhaps, he thinks, she is dreaming that a tiny man is touching her.

The moment has come to begin his expedition. Scaling ridges of rumpled sheet he makes his way forward along her side toward where her head lies on the mountainous pillow. The great mound of her breast towers above him as he feels his way deep into the cleft between her arm and her body. He removes his clothes and unlaces his shoes. He will climb naked. Wedging himself between her arm and body, the nude mountaineer is able to scale the warm chimney of her armpit. He inches his way to the top, back braced against her ribs and feet against her arm. The dizzying smell of deodorant fills his head. The climb is difficult, but he takes his time.

At last, he emerges on her shoulder and, still breathing hard, pauses to survey the alpine panorama before him. To the north, Lydia's peaceful sleeping face towers over him, the familiar sharp ridge of her nose, the closed brown eyes fringed with dark lashes, black curls on her brow. Oh, he loves her! To the west a narrow ridge of collarbone runs to her neck ending at a small, soft hollow underneath her chin that seems to ask him to come and curl in it. But it is to the south that his eyes are drawn irresistibly. The view is spectacular. Lydia's two mountainous breasts rise to meet his eyes, swelling up with a soft fullness, peaked by puffs of nipples. They are the breasts of his dreams because he has only seen them in his dreams. They are glorious. He sits cross-legged to gaze at them for a time and fill himself with their prospect. Between the twin peaks runs a narrow chasm that gives access to the soft plains of her belly. Soon he will enter that narrow valley, but first he thinks he will scale the trembling breast before him and plant his flag upon a nipple.

The going is easy at first. He is barefoot, of course, feeling the luxurious softness of her skin on the soles of his feet. He mounts the springy incline of silky skin towards the peak, but the slope becomes sharper. The smooth surface offers no crevice for a foothold and, further, it is supple and yielding where his climbing wants a firm step. He is sliding. He lies down upon the breast and spreads his arms, but there is too much to grasp. How can this be done? He rests a moment against the soft swell and tries to solve this puzzle. How can he reach the top?

An idea comes to him. Returning the way he came, he stands once again upon the shoulder where the footing is firm. He crouches and dashes down the shoulder, running as fast as he can up the gentle slope, hoping that his momentum will carry him high enough to gain the summit. As his momentum is exhausted, he flings himself forward and is rewarded by feeling his hands about the nipple. He has his purchase and pulls himself to the summit. Victory! He celebrates his success and stands atop this tower of softness surveying all below him. Below him spreads the springy midriff plain that leads to the mound of tangled dark hair that is his destination. He can see it clearly from this prospect.

The moment of his triumph is brief, for Lydia, perhaps disturbed by the barefoot race across her flesh or the tug on her nipple, catches her breath the way sleepers do and shifts herself upon the bed. Her slight movement on the bed creates an earthquake tremor on her breasts. He is unceremoniously thrown from his feet and finds himself suddenly sliding down the slippery slope. Look out! He tries to stop himself but there is no hope on that silky incline. The bottom rushes to him abruptly. A sprawling crash stops his slide, but he discovers his fall is without serious consequences. Lydia's breasts are happily far from the rocky cliffs that bring death to those who climb the Alps. He finds himself wedged in the narrow pass between the heavy hills. He can put out his hands and touch both of these warm cliffs of slippery skin at once. Happy mountain man!

Finding no harm done, he wends his way south out of hill country towards the navel plain below. Bounding across her springy belly, he arrives at Lydia's umbilical crevice. He is surprised to see that a small gold ring has been attached. The virginal Lydia has been pierced! He thinks for a moment about tugging on the ring to see if the sleeping Lydia reacts, but decides another earthquake might be the result. Another slide might be more serious. He proceeds on towards a greater goal, the thick black tangle that marks the way to Lydia's sex. When he reaches this thicket he burrows his way through, snaking forward until he comes to those sweet, dark lips that swell between her legs. There he stops.

The lips go out and then down sharply, a vaginal precipice, but here he is in no danger of falling because he can cling to the tangles of hair which are all about him. In fact, he takes twines of hair and ties them about him so that he can comfortably claim his perch at the parting of the lips. His legs dangle over the edge. When he is settled, he puts one foot on the left labia and other on its mate. Pushing as hard as he can with his Lilliputian legs he parts these crests of skin and slides his legs into the slippery cavity between them. His lower half is nestled in warm pinkness. Once inside this niche, he feels with his bare feet until he finds that spot that, had Lydia by some unfortunate accident of chromosomes been born a man, would have swollen to become her penis. But Lydia is not a man. (Hallelujah!) He finds not penis but clitoris. On that clitoris this miniature man begins to do a miniature dance. He shuffles to the right and to the left. He skates forward and skates back. Sometimes he stands on tiptoe and dances a jig. Sometimes he walks on his heels. Sometimes he turns about and paddles as though he were on a treadmill. From where he lies, half buried in vagina, he cannot see Lydia's face. If he could he would have seen an eyelash flutter, a movement of the mouth that suggests that this dancing has started a promising commotion. Sexual bats emerge from the dark cave of sleep to fly wildly into Lydia's dreams. The great lips that hold his body loosen, swell, open and, as if by dream magic, are lubricated. His naked body pollywogs in female slime, and the air is full of damp heat. Lydia's female penis is now erect. His tiny member is also hard, as hard as a fourteen-year-old penis at the drive-in movies. He lowers himself further into the slippery cleft, humping the hardened bump.

Because he has been in this dream before, he knows what will happen now and he prepares himself. He unties himself from his pubic perch and lets his body slide down between the great, swollen, slippery lips, then extricates himself from the gooey cleft and drops down again to the satin sheet. He turns. Above him the chasm of Lydia's giant vagina lies open, glistening with excitement between thickets of dark pubic hair. As he watches a giant finger appears and Lydia begins to masturbate vigorously. This is what he has expected. Now there are two fingers and they slide down and are pushed up inside her. Lydia finger fucks herself. He hears the sound of her fingers moving inside her. The fingers move faster. In celebration of this moment he has created, he throws himself back on the sheets, grabs his hard-on and jerks off in Lydia's honor, his eyes fixed on her towering cunt. He shouts as he ejaculates.

"Come, Lydia! Come!"

And she does, heaving, arching her hips, and pressing her swollen bud. He dives desperately forward, snaking up into crevice between her buttocks. Just in time! The giant legs are slammed together as Lydia wrings the last drops of pleasure from her orgasm. An Amazonian heat fills the air and earthquakes roll along the bed as she snaps her hips to the rough music of her pleasure.

He wakes. He knows again, he will never have her. He will never see her naked. He will never even kiss her. This dream, he knows, is as close as he will ever come to Lydia. But still he loves her hopelessly. Perhaps he can fall back to sleep if he can find a comfortable spot in this bed. Perhaps...