Parabola

"Twirling around with this familiar parable - spinning, weaving 'round each new experience." - TOOL, 'Parabola'

#shrinking #gts #softvore #bodyexploration

*****

You find yourself awake mid-breath on the perfect wilderness night. When waking up in a strange city, in a strange bed, or on strange earth, you get to experience your senses one at a time, instead of in tandem as normally. Serenity hits you first, a gentle balance of crisp wind against the heat trapped in your sleeping bag. Ursa Major and Minor are shining above you, unmarred by any haze of city lights. Rogue scents mingle: mountain flowers, loam and camphor, sage; your own musk over another human's, spicy and natural-sweet. Even the clamor of insects scratching and chirping incessantly in the brush doesn't unsettle you: you are as still as you can be, breathing your surroundings in deeply.

Eventually, though, the hazy memories of hiking and camping come back to you clearly, and despite the darkness and perfection of the night, you realize that you are fully awake. You rub the sleep out of your eyes and turn, meaning to slide your naked body out of the sleeping bag and into the cool world (perhaps brush your teeth, wake your sleeping companion and convince her to go on a waterfall dive)- and instead, your perception is suddenly assaulted by incomprehensible images: dirt as far as the eye can see, craters impacting the landscape everywhere, massive Martian vegetation shifting shadows around you, towering impossibly-

Tilt-shift. This is not the world that you fell asleep in. Almost seasick, your hands cling to the massive clods of soil around you, and you weather the lung-wrecking panic that engulfs you. You close your eyes.

Cicadas. Rustling leaves. Patchouli. Intimate musk.

After a few moments, your sense of self-control equalizes and smoothes out the shock, and your natural sense of curiosity opens your eyes. You find yourself whispering to the night.

"Holy fucking...shit." A place too real and strange to even have the dream-quality some moments have. You can feel the world interacting with itself, below your feet and out and on forever. There is a tiny, dim light flickering in the tent that rises next to you like the Manhattan cityscape: a soft haze, jutting out and out and making you lean back to understand it's enormity- you can't even fathom the trees.

For the second time in your life that you can remember, your heartbeat is the smallest thing that you've ever experienced. This simple terrestrial growth humbles you, making you deeply aware of your own fragile humanity. You are, you imagine, just above a half-inch from the ground- and your capacity for terror is gone. You are a being made of cells and awe, standing naked in the newborn dawn.

Possibilities for exploration immediately flood your mind. The ordinary things that surround you are suddenly extraordinary, filled with new context. The dirt clods around you are made of massive, palm-sized grains, and with effort, you can squeeze dew from them in droplets the size of your face. Something about this is thrilling: without much forethought, you begin packing the dirt into something between a shack and a doghouse, with a roof that meets just above your shoulderblades. It stands proudly and smoothly. It requires true effort to uproot the leaves of grass that you mean to weave together as a covering for your mud-house: you give up after three, realizing the futility of it, and your dwelling as a whole. But still, you marvel at them: they are wondrously tough and thick, yet transparent enough for you to admire their vein structure, with capillaries thicker than your own.

You imagine that they heaved soft sighs, when you uprooted them from the ground, and you lay them respectfully back before heading toward the tent. Morning is rising, but the air is still somewhat cold, and even close to the ground, its circulation chills the thin sheen of sweat on your naked and slightly mud-covered body. The tent means shelter, an absolute necessity when living in the elements. Why you have awoken outside of it is not the solvable half of this mystery: merely an observation that you puzzle over.

The corner of the tent is already unzipped and pulled aside (several real-world inches at the very least-who does that? who wants bugs in their tent?) but you have to jump and grab onto the edge of the vinyl lip to reach the opening. Your miniscule weight shifts the material, and flops you roughly inside.

You roll from the barely-covered ground to something blissfully soft and warm against your bare skin, and you can't resist turning to give it further inspection and appreciation. Smooth as velvet, the color of rich honey in the dim light of the tent, and vast as a zeppelin- a girl's round shoulder peeks out from under a tangled mass of brown silk sheets. You climb her, mesmerized, your bare feet sinking ever-so-slightly into the surface of her skin. Her sleep-breaths come heavy and slow, and she shifts as you climb across her chest, pulling the sheets down for air.

She is a landscape, and an intoxicating one. Her scent rises with her heat like a burning candle, making you dizzy. Reverentially, you take a silent and careful path down her body, roaming the textures of her skin. Faint ridges, marking pathways like tributaries along the slight circles of her pores crisscross underneath your feet, becoming closer together as you journey across her stomach. Here, although her skin is taut, it is exceptionally soft below you, rising and falling tumultuously as she breathes, and you are careful with your steps so that your movements don't wake her and cause her to slap you like a bug.

As the sheet moves across her belly, the outline of her body plunges into darkness, and you lay prone along her stomach to crawl underneath it. The feel of her body pressed against your front-large enough to crush you several times over but laying peacefully beneath you- is incredibly sensual, and your cock grows stiff, prodding into her immense form. In the darkness, enveloped in the pressure between the soft sheet and your lover's softer body, you feel your way even lower, following the deep, heavy scents radiating from where her thighs meet.

Everything slides against you so wonderfully, giving you chills despite the heat multiplying between your forms. You don't even have to close your eyes to imagine that the world as you know it has been swallowed by her- that you could journey along her curves for an eternity if you wanted to.

Eventually, you traverse over the firm peak of her hipbone, then across the slope of her pubic mound, shaved clean down into the inviting ridge of her clit. Her labia hug your sides and suffocate you as you slide between them, and for a few moments, you allow it, powerfully aroused by the way she subtly draws you nearer and inward with every pulse. She stirs against you, and your feet reach something slippery and thick that soon coats your entire body. Not wanting (and also wanting) to be lost forever within her cunt, you struggle toward freedom, against the carnal draw of her cavernous depths.

Laying on the floor of the tent, covered in dirt and sweet, heady syrup, catching your breath, you begin to feel just the slightest amount overwhelmed by your adventure. Thirst beckons you, and oxygen- your whole being feels in lust for something, to fuck and to feed. You stand and push your palms above your head, keeping the sheet from sticking to you as you search for a way out.

You emerge at the "foot" of the tent, where nighttime tossing and turning has jostled and upturned all of the supplies. Among them is the water canteen, lolling on its side with the contents dripping slowly out. You bring your hands to the leak in the container and splash the droplets of water against your face with immense relief, using it to wipe off the female stickiness that is beginning to dry against you, and then scrub your hands clean again. You bring handful after handful to your mouth, dimly noting the vague bleachy aftertaste of the liquid, but too refreshed to care.

Still wet, but warmed by the ambient temperature of the tent, you turn your attention to your rumbling stomach. The soft cooler containing all of the camping snacks is in front of you, but the insulated plastic walls of it aren't remotely traverseable. You walk around the cooler and its surrounding debris slowly and deliberately, looking for something safe to climb on. The backpack is the only thing that you could get reasonable grip and height from- you'd just have to make a hell of a jump. After a few moments of calculation, you decide that it probably won't kill you, and start the climb. Your feet hook easily in the many corners and pockets, and the ties and zippers make excellent handholds.

In measured distance, it's only about four inches to the top of the cooler, but to you, it looks like an eternity. It's far past what you would normally consider a safe jumping range, but you have the advantage of the top corner of the backpack being higher than the cooler. Anything seems possible to you, at this point, so after you consider for a moment more, you get a decent running start, and leap-off the edge of the backpack, flailing ridiculously for just long enought to realize that you're about to land equally poorly, and you smack shoulder-first into the cooler. It has a squishy insulated top, so you aren't injured, beyond having the wind and stars knocked out of you, and possibly something that will blossom into a bruise in the upcoming days.

The cooler is right in front of one of the tent's little square "windows", and you sit Indian-legged after you recover to admire the Eastern morning view momentarily. Every terrestrial vision still looms, but somehow, the corner of the sun shimmering upward over the horizon still looks the same size it always has. Zen in this incredible little snippet of time, you stare down the sun on its slow journey, appreciating the way its brightness fills the tent with ambient warmth, delicately illuminating the tangled mass of girl still sleeping on the floor of the tent.

After a few minutes, practicality wins over beauty, and the brightness is beginning to get just a bit unpleasant. You flop on your belly over the side of the cooler and dilligently work on unzipping it. It isn't difficult, exactly; but you need to hook your whole arm through the plastic zipper-pull, and get just the right angle of leverage to slide it along a few of its teeth, then drop the zipper-pull, scoot down and readjust your position, and then grab it and start over again.

Several minutes of this and you finally achieve success; the cooler is open, and you've pushed the side over just enough that you can drop down inside. You're just peering inside and considering your descent-and the possibilities for reascent, since there almost certainly isn't rope in the cooler-when the sun finally peaks and hits the side of the tent in full.

The result is almost instantaneous. Mirabel, sleeping soundly just moments before, stirs in the morning light, then sniffs the air and drags the covers the rest of the way from her body. Her yawn and stretch in the golden light gives her the look of a somewhat disheveled gargantuan goddess. You watch her in admiration for a moment, before saying, "Hey, good morning!"

No response. Eager to tell her about your adventure and discuss the witchcraft responsible, you try again, this time a bit louder. She doesn't even look in your general direction. You consider this. This isn't a movie- physical laws apply. So your miniature body has tiny vocal chords, that are producing similarly small sound waves- that are doubtlessly very hard for someone a hundred times your size to actually hear.

Mirabel shifts to your side of the tent and grabs the leaking water canteen, untwisting the top to take a drink.

"Hey, Mirabel, can you hear me?" You wave from the top of the cooler.

She brings the canteen to her mouth and takes several enormous gulps, then follows a familiar ritual; splashing just a bit into her hands and then rubbing it over her face to help her wake up.

You take an enormous breath, and scream. "Mirabel!"

This time, she seems to hear you. Her movements stop and she squints and looks around. You're about to yell again while you've got her attention when she sets the canteen down with unexpected roughness, jostling the cooler. The ground lurches underneath you bounce just a bit and slide into the open corner of the cooler, hitting something cool, solid, and slightly fuzzy.

The panic that had dissipated earlier is now pumping steadily back in the form of adrenaline. Having established the difficulty of getting someone else's attention, you begin to seriously wonder about your immediate prospects. Climbing around inside the cooler is next to impossible-every surface and package is scattered and unsteady. You decide it is safest to cling tight to the object you initially landed on, lest you slip deeply into the void of snacks and become crushed.

"Hey! Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey!" Urgency carries your voice. You're as loud as you can remember being in a long time. "I'm in the cooler! HEY!"

And then you pause to listen. It sounds like she's rustling about, perhaps standing, or getting dressed, or looking for you in places that aren't the cooler, or opening the tent and-

The cooler floods with light. A hand reaches in, and you reach back, flooded with relief. But it isn't coming for you. It closes instead around the object you're atop of, and crushes you solidly against it, pulling you up out of the cooler.

Now that your face is pressed into its flesh, you realize what you've landed on-a peach. Or a nectarine, perhaps. You try to make noise, any noise, to squirm against the hand holding you tightly against the fruit, but it's pointless. You're stuck.

She takes a bite of the fruit- you can hear, and just barely see her teeth piercing through its skin, millimeters away from your face, tearing its pink flesh and then pursing her lips to slurp the juice that floods out.

You think about the superhuman strength that people achieve in dire situations, enabling them to lift cars, and dodge bullets, and perform ritual acts of telekinesis, and wish any of that applied to you know. Still trying in vain to make noise, you choke against the bits of peach rind that are filling your mouth, and your heart trying to jackhammer its way through your ribcage.

You see the tongue moving for you first. As her hand shifts to allow her to bite into a different area of the fruit, you are momentarily freed from your enclosure, only to see lips closing around you and trapping you and plunging you into succulent, aromatic darkness.

Her tongue undulating beneath you, you are tossed against the ribbed roof of her mouth as she smashes the pieces of fruit between her teeth. The tiny bits of light that occasionally glint through Mirabel's lips and teeth show that you are in a wet, pink wonderland, tossed amidst the glistening flesh of her mouth. Saliva is already flooding her mouth to help her swallow, and for the second time this morning, you find yourself completely drenched in another human's bodily fluids. She opens her mouth to suck more of the sugary liquid from the peach and the suction squashes you between a powerful, unimaginably slick tongue and her solid palate.

Trapped in a whirpool of saliva and juice, you are tossed into the back of Mirabel's throat before being held tightly by a moist embrace of muscles that carry you downward to her esophagus.

Surrounded by the wet tunnel of her throat, you gasp for breath before you are pushed out-along with a waterfall of saliva and fruit pulp- into the cavern of her stomach.

Somewhere outside, the sun was rising. Somewhere inside, you are still a body, filled with wonder.