Boy, did my computer give me shit for this one.
My Date With A Fifty Foot Woman
There’s this freaky-ass outdoor sex club way out past Los Alamos. The whole bar so strange with all that eerie radiance, just luminous desert with a vibrachlor glow, greens and blues emanating from the rocks that serve as bar stools. Some of the customers can be quite unusual and you can hardly tell wherever starport they came from. Cocktails of all persuasions are served and can be quite challenging depending on the ingredients involved.
Now I’m only five-seven, but there was this blonde chick at least fifty feet tall, sitting alone in front of a speaker. She perched on a rock that looked brighter than most others. I guess when you’re fifty feet tall, you kinda takes what you can get. She was pretty as all get-out, and slender by proportion, but crying all by herself, sniffling and snorfling to beat the band.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart,” I hollered up to her. “Why so sad?” I wondered what chemalts she may have taken or if she’d arrived that way.
“I can’t find anybody to love. Look at me; I’m fifty feet tall for chrissakes.”
“But there’s men-alikes much bigger than you in these envires.”
“Yeah—and you know big an asshole guys your size can be?”
The questortion sounded fair, so I countered, “Well, yeah. Sometimes.”
“Take a guess what they’re like when they’re over fifty feet tall. They know how rare they are and that’s when they really think they can cross the genderfool line. All the good looking big ones think their shit don’t-“
“What’s your name, baby?”
“Gwendolyn, but you can call me Gwen.”
“Hi Gwen, I’m Tom. How’d you get so humongogeneris, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Not at all. I was only twice your size when I was fourteen, but then I just shot up.”
“What’d you shoot up?”
“No, not that. I meant I grew! I grew bigger.”
“You sure did. How long has it been since you had a date? Ummm… If that isn’t over that gender whatever line.”
“Date? You mean the last time I got laid, don’t you? You can talk straight to me, mister. Don’t pull any punches, little man.”
“Maybe it’s none of my gossipality after all. Why would it matter to me if you go out with guys your measural or not?”
“Shouldn’t,” she muttered from above.
“I just met you, Gwen,” I said, “but I think I’d like to know you better. I’ve never been comfortable talking with anybody so erotoballistic. My tongue always gets screwed up and confused and shit. But it comes so easy with you … at least so far.”
“We could be friendly, but nothing more.”
“What’s that mean?”
“We could never complify each other sexually, Tom.”
I knew that I had tried, every once in a while in the past, several times upon occasion, rarely, every now and then, to enter a woman headfirst, pushing my face and foreparts up as far into a girl’s netherden as possible. But of course they were usually considerably smaller than Gwen, and of course I could always keep my arms and shoulders free to keep myself from glurging to death.
“But I’m not so sure with you, my dear,” I said. “My life could be in the offing.”
“I try not to kill with my cunt,” she replied. “Mostly I satisfy myself with jackhammers.”
“Golly! Wouldn’t that hurt?” I was incredifluous.
“Nah,” she said. “I just wrap a latex sheet around a ergknot fixed on the end of the gyron and it wibbles my flibberty just fine and dandy!”
“They? I asked. “More than one? “You use more than one?”
“Not all at once, but I do like having one in reserve in case one fails. I can get out of control if I don’t finish my climax.”
“That sounds dangerous. Do they need electricity?”
“Hard to say. They’re mostly hydraulic and air powered types; but some electric ones do come with an atomic generator for use out here in the desert.”
I just then realized I was looking up her dress. I had always wanted more pussy in my life, but I always thought of it in terms of multiples—lots of pussys. I didn’t figure on just one filling the bill. She had spread her legs a few yards and I could peek at her plump pudenda underneath. Curly blonde hairs the thickness of twine stuck out the sides of her skivvies. The soggle fabric hugged her labius for an impressive, three-foot-long camel toe. I wondered where she could buy clothes that size—it appeared she wore satin.
She caught me looking.
“What a huge hooha you have,” I said, trying to put a suppositive light on my sexsight.
“Only to you. If I could only find the right guy, I sure would like to fuck him with it. I’m so horny.”
DX ….. Snip… And then, later on, the BS gets heavier; Gwen’s on her back against a steep sandy hill and Tom is now froeliching on her chest.
“Mmm … take it slow, little man,” she said. “I’m a lot of woman and I can sometimes seem more magnanimous than life; but if you’ll only stick around and get to know me, you’ll learn I’m just a starry-eyed little girl, looking for love.”
I was beginning to like the way she called me ‘Little Man’. It lent a certainty of purpose as to what was developing beyond my own sexual satisfaction. Cementing an important yet temporary emotibond between Gwen and me—not trying to enmeld us—not sculpting two entities into something we weren’t. Something deeper.
Even though her navel was so darned enticing and felt so good offerhugging my wank-alot, I did want to sample all of Gwen’s charms. If not all her charms, right down to her feet on this particular night, at least well below her publific region. After all … when, where or how else? Ever? So off I crawled, hands and knees into the yellow density that was Gwen’s thatch.
“Tee hee,” she said. “Do it some more.”
“I’m making progress,” I answered. “Just have to get through these thick strandelles.”
“Take your time, little man. Tiptoe through lightly, Tom. … Dance, if you will...”
“I certainly feel happy enough to dance, my dear Gwen,” and dance I did; a sure-footed naked prance along a textural edge of soft, golden grasses caressing my bare feet, winding in and out of her untrimmeled triangle’s upper border. As carefree as my dance became, I twisted a few hairs around a foot and disbalanced into the tanglup patch. “Whoops!” I cried.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
Trying to brace my fall, my hand slipped down her slittle; which, in Gwen’s case would be rather a slittarge.
“Oh my god,” she cried. “That was too exisudden, Tom. Don’t hit such sensitive places so hardly, so quickly.”
“It was an accident, dear. I’m sorry.”
“Just teasing, little man. I like surprises.”
I took the opportunity to investigate further, twisting the arm that I now know is so surprising along her slick slittarge, feeling for the pearly buttonesque that I knew lurked under a soggle flapit somewhere along the curly furroid.
DX- Thanks for reading. The entirety of this story can be read now on ERWA’s ‘Storytime’ list, where I posted it on Monday. It’s titled as “My Date With a Thirty Foot Woman”, (but someone put me hip to a certain discomfort factor in the proportions so I made some changes. :>)