Giantess World
The man leapt up from Astraea’s tan-brown slightly-jiggly pectoral flesh as though he’d landed on hot coals, but the damage had already been done. Before he even had the chance to dive clear of her boob, her lightning-quick fingerpads were burying him in a pointed grasp, decidedly firmer than the last embrace, and raising him to her face. Strangely, though the Apex’s voice was quieter now than when she was bellowing to everyone in the warehouse and taunting them over their edibles fates, the little man couldn’t help but think he was seeing “real” anger from her now, a glimpse behind the dramatic façade of her booming threats, wide smiles, and starvation-suffering behavior. And the irate reality was much more frightening than the show. A low growl curdled in Astraea’s throat, blowing out into the accidental tit-grabber’s puny face with eye-watering heat like the preamble to a dragon’s fiery belch, and then she flicked him into her mouth and swallowed with such speed, it was wholly a toss-up whether he’d even survive long enough to have his soul fully extracted during the gullet-snaking descent, but the Apex wouldn’t have cared in his particular case.
Nevertheless, she did manage to suck out his full fearful nutrition, massaging her throat and loudly murmuring with the sense-electrifying pleasures gratefully returned to her system by that slower feeding. Gradually, too, her pulse settled from staid rage-mode back into more nebulous passion. It was one thing for them to shoot her in the crotch, but quite another to actually touch her, skin-to-skin, in that presumptive way which so often tempted her to forego Mitch’s pleading and just turn all mankind in the city (with the emphasis on man) into an all-she-could-eat smorgasbord. And since Astraea had never actually discovered her stomach’s capacity for the munchy little things, considering the limits of her husband’s tolerance were always reached before belly space, the Apex was led to believe she would have a great deal of room inside for them, taking barely a pause between gulps.
The third fellow’s oafishness aside, though, she’d successfully swished and gobbled her way back into “the mood,” more skin-crawlingly tongue-swirlingly sensuous than she’d felt all day. And funnily enough, that last creep’s bone-deep despair at experiencing her legitimate anger had been just the ticket. With that, Astraea’s whole thousand-foot physique was activated with every flavor of fulfillment and temptation.
Again the sensory memory of her husband’s tender touch resumed, and right on her bosom no less, as if Mitch was here to shower her breasts with micro-kisses and calm her down following that insulting grab-up by that falling morsel. Per usual, though, the vivid thought of her most recent marital activities did anything but gentle the giantess down, and instead only further riled her into hungry libidinous necessity. What’s more, the atmosphere of the warehouse had been reignited with collective frenzy by the survivors and especially their bosses, all of whom had used this opportunity to arm themselves with more toy weaponry, as if the previous examples weren’t enough to make them lay down and beg for the quickest-possible consumption. Not that she would’ve granted such a thing, anyway.
“Oh, you stupid, pathetic, tiny things…” Astraea gutturally moaned, now forgoing almost all playful ceremony, though even her turned-on whisper still struck them like a thunderclap. “You can’t imagine how much I’m going to enjoy swallowing each and every one of you.”
The Apex crept forward on her hands and knees, though not remotely submissive in her posture, which still made her appear a sort of beautiful war machine advancing languidly along the warehouse floor, her cut musculature tightening beneath mocha-tan flesh with every movement forth, in the way of a lioness ready to pounce. Though her gaze was hauntingly glazed over and a near-continuous drool stream was strung out all the way from Astraea’s lips down to the ground in a gooey trail a hundred feet back beneath her crouched frame, however, the giantess’s mind now registered the blind-firing terror-rich targets scattered among the illegal paraphernalia only so far as they existed, were horrified, and highly edible.
Instead, from the moment that sensory recollection of Mitch was visited upon her by that boob-dropper, with Astraea’s adorable and good-hearted hubby’s mere essence slicing through all the panicked noise and hungry carnage of this day out, he became her sole focal point again. She felt his presence so potently, that he may as well have been clinging to her lips now, laying amorous smooches while the ravenous ring of her mouth undulated right back and lubed him head-to-toe in saliva. And as aroused as it made her already to rattle the very souls of so many slurped-up mobsters, heightening their delectably agonized moods with every sloppily-consumed body, the feeling was incomparably multiplied when combined with the sharp memories of last night’s romp in the sack with that one precious little man whom she only-occasionally (usually in the split-second at the absolute peak of orgasm) imagined swallowing one day for good.
That sensation of Mitch at her mouth, his kisses and gyrations and tiny member prodding at her pillowy lower lip, then influenced Astraea’s hand scooping savagely through the nearest crowd of criminals like a bear’s paw through honey. She collected eleven victims and brought them directly toward her low-roaring maw, whereupon she clapped her palm flush against the rim of her cheeks and chin, ensuring all of them were dumped into her wide-open orifice with no chance of eking out the sides, despite the slippery rivulets of spit that gushed out in all directions with a pronounced “Hhhhommm…” from the giantess’s throat. In direct correlation with her recalling the plop of Mitch’s body being suctioned into her mouth last night, from mere gooey peck to a French snog, she began to suck on all eleven writhing frames and their ticklish gunfire at once.
Where her husband had received a highly-regulated volume of pressure inside his one-hundred-story spouse’s oral cavity, however, firmly-yet-sensuously imbibed, the crooks she actually had inside now weren’t so lucky. They were thrashed between cheeks, near-smothered in bubbles, and battered by her tongue belly-flopping in and out of that saliva wading pool. Neither did any of the fearful human scum currently receiving the spin-cycle treatment around her teeth get to enjoy the perks of being married to Astraea while inside her mouth, chiefly among those her expert talent at guiding Mitch to gently body-slam the flat of her tongue and sidle his hard-on between her throbbing pink taste buds. Though the Apex did her fair share of sampling this mouthful of ruffians, salivating more with every disturbed scream and each déjà vu tingle back to her night with Mitch, she ensured the process was nothing but disorienting and wholly overwhelming for these creatures, making their experience nothing like the full-body BJ her husband was suckled into, and instead much more similar to the approximate experience of being hard candy.
In spite of her tongue’s quick-striking brutality with the minions and overall unlivable churning atmosphere of her mouth, though, Astraea still lingered heavily on that memory of drawing pleasure from Mitch. She’d done so slowly, making each body-drinking pulse lengthier and tighter, yet still secure in the knowledge that she never put her little love in danger, and certain he shared that sentiment, as she centered him like a pearl on her oozing serpentine muscle. She didn’t have to guess at his comfort, either, since the only “fear” she ever perceived from Mitch was the novel flutter of his heartbeat whenever she posed a new erotic tango for them to attempt. Otherwise, though, he was only content and stupid-horny while hunkered submissively upon her tongue in the sweet-scented darkness, as she massaged him toward climax. She supposed this more than anything else was even further proof that she’d married the right being, jokes of “taming” aside, because he still got her hotter than anyone, even totally lacking in fear to feed her.
Playing the vividly-memorized event back in her mind, at the same instant Astraea that recalled making her hubby moan and surrender atop her tongue so she could swallow that seed of his devotion, she also cleared out the current jumble of slobbered-up thugs in one impressively hard gulp. Naturally this end also diverged from her time with Mitch, who was usually either daintily extracted from her mouth between loving fingertips, or just spewed messily out into her palm inside a deluge of frothy spit, depending how dirty the couple was collectively feeling that evening. These boys, the most frightened they’d ever been, were destined only to travel down toward slimier depths in the opposite direction. Letting out a harmonious chirp of satisfaction in both appetite and sexuality, the same hand which had stuffed those eleven gunners between her lips now traveled down toward Astraea’s arched-up thighs, tantalizingly stroking the pillar of her middle finger up the dampening central ravine in her shorts.