Erotica: In Good Hands

Content notes and warnings: Macrophilia; deliberately non-gendered second-person POV character; nonbinary giant; insufficient lube; some D/s overtones

[Description: An illustration of a person sitting naked in a pair of very large blue hands. Art by Inkstars.]

It had been several months since you’d first found them. That had been an accident—you’d gotten lost hiking in the mountains, and found a cave, and by coincidence, there they were. But all of your returns, those had not been accidents.

They were as old as the mountains, they said. Too old for them to never have been seen, but aside from a few local legends and a couple of crazy websites, there isn’t much mention of them. They say it’s because they’re very quiet, but after a while you realized that was a joke. Their sense of humor is on the dry side, and it took you a while to pick up on it. But now it, too, is one of the things you love about them.

Oh, yes, it’s love. It took you a while to figure that out, of course. You’re pretty open-minded, it’s true, but you’d never considered the possibility of falling in love with a giant. When you’d kept coming back to visit, you’d figured it was curiosity over the novelty, and then friendship. But once you’d realized it was love, well, what could you do?

Especially when you realized that they loved you back.

Of course, there were a few drawbacks to being in love with someone several times your size. You’re a sexual being, but there were some logistical problems. Fortunately, the two of you aren’t limited by your limited creativity; they’re much older than you, after all, and they’ve tried many things. And so, once you expressed your concerns, they laughed and patted you (carefully) on the head and assured you that there was more to sex than simply inserting Tab A into Slot B.

And so here you are now, cupped in their hand, naked. Your clothes are folded elsewhere in the cave, where you’ll find them again later. Everything here is golden, the only light coming from the hearthfire they keep lit at all times.

They raise their hand carefully, to bring you to their eye level. They’ve done this before, and you’ve become accustomed to the sudden elevator-drop that your stomach does, to the strange comfort of their palm, your ass tucked neatly into their lifeline, their fingers providing support for your back. It’s strangely comfortable, and quite sturdy. They would never let you fall.

But this is the first time you’ve done this unclothed. Their palm, with its slight give under you, is rougher than you’d realized, the whorls of their skin more pronounced at this size, and slightly calloused. You shift a little in your comfortable seat, and feel their rough skin against your most sensitive places, their heat surrounding you, and you shiver a little.

And now you’re face-to-face with them. How can you hide anything from such massive brown eyes? They gaze at you, and you almost cover yourself with your hands. You’ve had people see you naked, but this isn’t anything like that. They aren’t looking, they’re gazing, they’re peering, and you’re so tiny next to them that you cannot evade them in the slightest. If they want to look at you, they will.

But you want them to.

You fight back those nervous instincts, and spread your legs so they can get a better look. They take in a shaky breath.

“So tiny,” they say, voice a whisper, because they’re always careful not to speak too loud. “So tiny, yet so perfect. Oh, look at you blush,” they add, delighted, as you do just that.

They lift you to their mouth to give you a soft kiss, not caring where it lands because precision isn’t really an option here. Their mouth presses to your belly, and you feel the heat of their breath spread over you in all directions and sigh.

When they draw their hand back, you slide your hand down your belly, as if you can feel their kiss on your skin. And then you let it slide further down.

“Go slowly,” they tell you softly. “I want to see every detail.”

And so you force yourself to slow down. You stroke over yourself once, but it’s a slow, leisurely stroke, barely enough to arouse you but definitely enough for them to see.

“That’s it,” they say softly. “Good. Keep going, love.”

And so you do. You stroke yourself slowly, and at first you close your eyes, trying to imagine you’re alone to try to get into the right headspace. But you are not alone, and you know it at every moment. You can feel the pulse in their hand, the faint warm breeze of their breath. You can hear them stir.

You open your eyes again, and meet theirs, great and dark in the dim light, and you lick your fingers for a little moisture and start to rub faster. (Next time you’ll bring lube. Next time you’ll bring a lot of things.) Under your hand, your own expert attention, you become so much more sensitive, and you let out your first moan.

“You look so perfect,” they whisper again, and you lean back against their fingers, your legs spreading a little wider for them. And then their free hand comes up, and with one finger on each of your knees, they keep your legs spread, so that you couldn’t close them if you tried. They’re gentle, they’re always gentle; but you’ve seen them rip trees out of the ground with all the effort you’d put into yanking up crab grass.

Not for the first time, you realize just how helpless you are against them, and that only serves to make everything hotter, and you moan again. Your free hand comes up to pinch one of your nipples, the kind of pinch that proves you’re awake, the kind of pinch that means you’re more awake than you’ve ever been. You can feel the pebbled texture under your fingers, and you groan as the pinch seems to shoot straight through your core.

“Put those fingers inside you,” they say, softly. “I can’t. Please do it for me.”

You look up at them again, and now they’re biting their lip, their eyes still boring into you.

You stick your fingers in your mouth, knowing it’s really not sufficient but deciding that it’s good enough for now. With one hand still stroking you, you move the other down, and slide two fingers in, feeling your own heat the way they can’t, still a little rough despite your spit. Part of you, though you know it’s impossible, pretends that it’s them somehow, and you feel yourself clench around your own fingers at the thought, and their name escapes your lips.

“Shh,” they say, and once again the breath escapes them and flows over you, through you, and you’re shaking now, your knees quivering under their two fingers. “Come on, my love. Keep going. You can come for me.”

Your fingers pump in and out, but your other hand is still moving, faster and faster, clumsy now with urgency, and your breath is coming in sharp little rasps, almost drowning out whatever else they might say to you. You can feel your stomach clench, you can feel the tension building, low in your body, and you buck against your own hand, wildly, trying to build and break that tension all at once—

And when you come you slam your head back, and it would hurt if you weren’t cradled by their fingers. You don’t even realize that you cry out your release until it starts to die down, and you can hear the echo of your voice bouncing off the walls of the cave.

You withdraw your fingers, though your body is still clenching a little with aftershocks. Your thighs and their palm are wet.

And then they lift you closer again, and spread your legs once more. Their tongue, huge and hot and wet, moves cautiously over your body, tasting what they can of you, and you let out a little whimper as it meets you where you’re over-sensitive, over-stimulated, but part of you wants to feel that again.

They draw back and smile at you. “Next time,” they promise in the low, soft rumble of their voice. And then they lower you down onto a rock. “But now, it’s my turn, while you watch.”

They reach down, and start to untie their loin cloth, made of many whole deer hides sewn together. You settle in on the rock, still breathing hard, and ready yourself for your own show.


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This post is not sponsored. Art is by Inkstars, who is available for commission.

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