"Hey, ready to take a break?" she asked, grinning in anticipation of what she knows my answer must be. Now, let me remind you that what she "knows," things she takes for a "fact," often have little to do with reality or actual life events as they transpire. For example, as Tana Hands comes trotting into my cubicle, impossibly long legs striding almost entirely around my chair, and as I crane my head up from the tiny spot in the middle of the seat I occupy to see that long, shapely, nervously awkward frame rolling and twitching far above me, she "knows" that I'll says "yes" and we'll go off on our adventure. What would be more realistic would be me shrieking in horror, leaping off the seat, and hoping I could duck under the cube wall before Tana can snake her hands under the divider and seize me again.

So this time, the smart girl doesn't wait for a response. Grinning to test the corners of her mouth, she simply spools a gigantic, slim arm down, down, down to my chair. The flat of her palm looks like a piece of building that has come dislodged and is racing to splatter me where I sit, but her thumb and forefinger extend and with these she is very gentle indeed. She plucks me, and then I absorb their warmth for a moment, but she only hoists me up to the surface of my own desk.

Now I'm standing, a mighty 4" tall in well-fitting office wear, on a panel of wood-print paper glued more or less efficiently to a slap of particle board. That's what we contractors get: a shoddy desk-like surface and a cubemate. Tana is technically my cubemate but she's actually pretty important in the administration and is frequently away at meetings. That's well and good, but when she's out of those meetings, over the course of our brief interactions, she has shifted from seeing me as a coworker to seeing me as a personal toy the company issued her in some generous interpretation of jurisprudence.

She's so tall that the desk, my playing surface, reaches a point at the top of her thighs but below the crotch of her polyester slacks. Her crotch rises just over my head, in fact. As I stand on the edge of the desk, to my left and right are a pair of mighty trunks, powerful thighs that spread pleasingly circular but contain potent propulsion, lifting, and crushing force. And these fleshy dynamoes are sheathed by navy blue polyester, ringing her thighs perfectly but getting all wrinkled and complex as they lower into the recesses of her crotch. The wall of blue fabric above me is creased in a series of radial lines that draw together, drawing down, and converge symbolically to Tana's vagina: a symbolic mural of where, for me, all roads must necessarily lead.

I can feel her heat from where I stand. I can feel the aroused and flaming heat of her cunt, moist and hot with the idea of another lunch with me. I'm overwhelmed by it, this wave of hot ardor that hits me like a wave and flows all around and over me. Already I'm awash in what her body's putting out, and we still have our clothes on. I look up at her, over her slight belly, up between her two prominent and proud breasts, up to where her double-chin forms because she has to look down at me at such a sharp angle. That double-chin seems to form its own creased grin, and coupled with her already hysterical rictus, combine to form an inhuman, otherwordly greeting of delight. Her huge, round eyes are glaring down at me, waiting for a response. Her head nods suggestively, rapidly, her golden brown ponytails shaking frenetically as they dispel the energy from her skull like severed power cables from a transformer.

In front of me, her left hip slowly rolls away from the table and her right hip gently rises. Tana is changing positions on her feet, and her sultry, curvy hips adjust to the new position. Watching her hips move, seeing this sexually pertinent region of flesh roll and lever like this... I can't help myself, there's something arousing about even this subtle gesture. I try to ignore the glassy, bright eyes beaming down on me from above and I take a step or two toward her hips. I just have to rest my hand on one side to feel the muscles tense and release, the shift of bone over bone, all beneath her pants. She shifts again and her hips slide far to the other side, leaving me face-to-face with her crotch. All the folds in her pants are swooping down to point at me, and I extend one small, slim arm forward. I take a step. Cautiously I reach out to place my palm upon her crotch while Tana's holding still. Another step, and my fingers touch the dense polyester weave. I press, and there is a quiet yet satisfying rustle as her slacks push back and nestle into the top region of her dense nest of pubic hair. It's like a crinkling effect, at my size, and I push harder.

Ms. Tana Hands interpret this as the "yes" she has been waiting for over a minute. She claps—in this office, she actually bounces in place and claps her goddamned hands—and spins away from me abruptly. I leap back to avoid being knocked over by one round hip or...

Oh, this is new. Tana perks her head up, like some gigantic meerkat, jerkily peeking at all aspects of the surrounding office. She doesn't appear to see anyone as her alert, curoius expression never changes. The coast is clear when she ducks again, hastily fuddles with the front of her slacks, and I see the beltline over her butt loosen and then slip down over the tremendous round curves of her buttocks. I take another step back.

Her pale skin, from the tuck of her butt at the top of her thighs to the small of her back, is clad in lacy pink panties. Dusty rose, I think they call it. There's a bow in the center of the back waistband and I'm quite sure there will be one in the front, right over her ons. But faced away from me, she slides her massive mitts up to her hips and hooks those meaty thumbs inside the waistband. It's nothing for her to tug the matrix over her butt, cinch it down over her hips, and then let them drop. I can hear them rush through the air, quietly, as the slide down her smooth, strong thighs, then over her shapely, toned calves, before crumpling to a heap around her ankles.

Confronted with her cute apple-bottom, I began to check it out, when she did that unnervingly rapid fold-at-the-hips move she seems fond of. She bent right over as though a heavy spring had folded her down like a jack knife. Did she grab her ankles? I couldn't know: I was confronted with those soft round peaches now straining to spread to either side, and a pristine tan-and-pink anus with the finest wrinkles radiating from its hole. Tana scooted back on her heels, and her massive spread ass rested against the edge of my desk, taking one deliciously deep bounce before resting. She even winked her anus at me, twice, rapidly, and I think she thought I would think it was saying "hello." I didn't wave back.

Just where it started to disappear below the desk, from the anus to the perineum to the first wrinkles of her pussy, I could see her labia were glistening in anticipation. This was to be the hardest core lunch break we'd taken to date. If we could have kept it just like this, I would have liked to knelt before her wall of sexuality and just... poked and probed... rubbed my hands here, nuzzled my face there... pressed my chest up against something. Played with her, you know, at my leisure. Sometimes to sate my curiousity, and sometimes to explore delighting and satisfying my giantess coworker.

But she bumped her butt impatiently against the edge of the desk, and her anus winked and flared furiously, as from down below the desk her sonorous demands rose: "Come on," she intoned, "all aboard." She meant it to be playful but it came off creepy as heck.

Sighing, I tore off my shirt and pants, kicked them behind the paperclip cup, and sprinted across the desk. My feet made ridiculous tiny little padding noises, but her ass grew wider and taller as I approached. From below the edge of the desk her fingernails crept up—they were aqua today but she'd already bitten off the edges and gnawed at her cuticles—and her fingernails dug into her flesh and spread her labia just a little bit wider. Wide enough to show off a narrow little hole of pink flesh turning orange and rosy within the hole.

In two more steps I leaped, threw my arms before me, hands together, and I dove into that tight little hole. Well-lubricated, as it turned out, and with a noticeable *SCHLORPP!* I was in, slid right in with a ring of hot flesh hugging me down from my elbows, over my shoulders, down my ribs and waist... and getting stuck there. My tiny, spindly legs kicked freely at the open air, as her labia relaxed and nestled around my butt.

Good enough for her. I feel her panties slide back up over her butt, fabric dragging over my knees and shins, and as gravity shifts I know she's standing up again. I could be pussy-farted out of her, but for the pink lace netting. Next up are the navy slacks, racing up over her powerful thighs and sealing closed far above me. I've got two layers of fabric to stand on, as her vulva spasmodically clutches at my waist and my arms flail in the juicy darkness of her vaginal canal.

Fully dressed, I assume, she starts to walk out of the office to the lunchroom. She takes some time to rub my legs gently through her pants, let me know she hasn't forgotten about me. But I have to wonder, am I just going to reside in this twilight state in her pussy during her two slices of pizza and side salad? What does she get out of this?

I rub my arms aggressively around the lining of her vagina; in response, she clenches my waist until it's difficult to breathe. I kneel in her panties and wait to see where the hell we're going today, I guess.