Carl Liene Chapter 6
Around him, darkness gave way to a strange, odd, swirling blue and purple light. The walls seemed like that you might see at an old fun fair, an optical illusion... and yet this seemed far less, and yet in a way far more, real.
Reaching out to touch the wall for a moment, as curiosity overtook him, it seemed as though no matter how close his hand got the wall was always a little further away. Pulling it back, he realized just how far he was leaning, and set his eyes back ahead.
Air brushed past his face, which brought with it a... wonderful scent. Every wonderful smell he could imagine seemed to come at his senses one at a time as he slowly crawled further and further. Christmas dinner, a real one, not like the ones his parents made these days. Cookies. The smell of his old bedroom. As the scents led him by the nose, his memories were tugged back to the fore.
The tunnel warped, swerved, and spun, but at the end was a small black hole... no, a door. Just like the one he had come through. As he grew closer, it creaked open, and light spilled through.
He shielded his eyes, slowly moving forward on his remaining hand, until he felt a soft but solid surface under his hand, and... he was out. Blinking against the light, which seemed to dim as he did to a nice, warm, relaxing tone, he rose to his knees and looked around.
He was in his bedroom. The one from the mansion. Except this one was fully furnished. Clean. The walls were painted, warm, the floor carpeted. The bed was no old, creaky, wrought iron victorian number but a plush, cozy-looking, and massive. The lights all worked, but were turned down low.
His feet sank into effortlessly soft, thick carpets which hugged his soles as he stood. Somewhere, the smell of cooking got his attention again, as he had barely eaten that day.
“It's all a dream...” he reminded himself, as he walked forwards, the hatch slowly and silently closing behind him.
Making his way into the hall, he passed room after room. Carl wouldn't have known it was the same house if he hadn't become so familiar with the structure. Every wall, every floor was almost as new. As he passed a door he peered inside. No ancient furniture covered in old sheets met his eyes, but rather a room full of if anything oversized furnishings. Oddly, the massive scale of the mansion made the larger-than-normal chattels seem suitably sized, and left him feeling oddly small.
He crept towards the staircase, and could swear he heard singing for a moment. There it was again, he noticed, perking up at the sound. An almost angelic voice was humming away somewhere downstairs.
Afraid to put any weight down in case an old board creaked, he plodded down the stairs, yet it seems the woodwork was just as refurbished as the rest of the home, and he was utterly silent. Still, it was hard to shake the feeling someone knew he was there...
As the old archway between the kitchen and sitting room passed, he saw a figure move, and a shadow from the light played across the murky hallway behind. He inched closer, and peered around the wall, at the person who was cooking that smell which now fully encompassed him.
She was... tall. Incredibly tall. It was hard to judge, but going by the odd, dream-world scale so far, he guessed she was at least eight feet. Her body was wide, too. Just as incredibly so. Her thighs were thick, and the bottom of the sweater barely tickled below the curve of her derriere, which barely creased across a lap which squished together as she moved from side to side, entrancingly.
She wore a grey sweater, with no backing, and seemingly nothing beneath, as her long thighs and legs below were bare. The woman seemed to be holding something in front of her, as whenever she moved her arms or turned to the side ever so slightly, something jutted out in front of her.
For some reason Carl couldn't quite place, she seemed familiar. As if he knew her...
Carl didn't realise he was now standing fully openly in the archway, staring agape at this giantess, until it was too late. He caught himself, and made to move back, but then for a moment, the figure paused.
Slowly, achingly slowly, she turned, and Carl was caught as if in the headlights.
“Hello there, dear,” the figure spoke, in a voice which flowed like liquid caramel across her tongue and past her lips, and was just as sweet.
“M... mum?” he stammered, as he recognized what he thought was his mother's face.
The figure now rested its hand on an absurdly wide hip, her ample curves practically offering a shelf.
And those curves... now it was all too obvious what she had been carrying. Her breasts flowed forth from her neck and simply never seemed to end. Their plump, ripe, perkiness seemed at odds with their sheer scale. His eyes traced from her neckline down her cleavage, which stretched on and on, until the sweater came to a close just above where her nipples would be. Ample and full, they pressed together within the confines of the sweater in ways that was making his adolescent mind question its knowledge of the laws of physics. They seemed almost to vie for space, so
The sweater strained, even its forgiving knitted material seemed almost to groan under the effort of keeping such massive breasts contained. Despite being so full, so ripe, they flushed down to just above her waist, and he wondered how much of that was simply the work of the sweater, or were they simply that big?
“Sweetie, what's got you up so late?”
He tried to look her in the eyes, but it wasn't possible. She stepped towards him, and he stood there, frozen.
“Oh my, are you alright dear? You seem ever so pale...”
As she grew closer, and closer, his heart hammered in his neck. His mouth was at once too wet and too dry, and when he tried to swallow his throat wouldn't respond. At last, she towered over him, and he corrected his earlier estimate. She was closer to nine feet tall, and god only knew what her other measurements were. Whereas before he struggled to take his eyes off her breasts, now he struggled to see past them, as she bore down on him.
At last, her face came into focus, just visible over the valley of her tits. Two solid black, depthless eyes stared back down at him.
“Y... you're not my mother...” he said, almost silently, rooted to the spot in a mix of fear and other feelings his brain wasn't quite ready to process yet.
Her lips curled, and he saw just how obscenely thick and full they were, thicker than her fingers which in turn were thicker than his thumbs. They looked pillowy soft, and seemed to be eternally jutting out as if searching for something to grasp, to kiss, to suck...
“Oh, of course not,” she cooed in a sickeningly sweet voice, and her lips formed a soft 'o', a tiny gap between them forming.
She leaned down, and as sweat trickled down his neck, they formed a knowing smile.
“I'm your other mother, sweetie...”
Her hand moved, gracefully and deftly, and yet he didn't notice until it was too late to react. Her fingertips, silkily soft, traced down his cheek and cupped under his chin, her pinky finger ever-so-delicately tickling at his neck.
“O-o-o-” he blabbered, not really making sense.
“Other Mother, that's right sweetie,” she said, letting her touch linger just long enough, before stepping back, “Oh my, you look hungry!”
As if on cue, his stomach groaned in empathy.
She leaned over, closer this time, until her breasts were inches from his face, and he stared into the chasm of her cleavage as if it was the edge of a cliff from which he might fall. Her hands came together between her massive thighs, and squeezed her titanic breasts from behind, pressing them outwards even closer to him.
“Would you like mommy to... feed you?” she whispered, huskily.
With that, she ever-so-gently moved her arms in and out, in and out, and the mass of her tits began to jiggle, to wobble. The swell of her bosom rippled ever so slightly, in waves, demonstrating how effortlessly soft and yet yielding they must be.
His mind reeled under the visual display, the male brain not designed to cope with such a sight.
“Is mommy's baby hungry?” she cooed, and just above her breasts, those unbelievably thick lips came together in a mocking kiss.
As her breasts jiggled softly, again, and again, as if beckoning him, he felt himself helplessly being drawn in. Slowly, he tilted closer. There was no question of if. No man could resist what he was seeing. Her sweater was offering him a window to the most wordless bliss he could imagine, and his cock, unrecognised til now, had sprung back to full attention.
Closer, and closer he drifted, until he could feel their sheer weight and sway wafting the air.
“Y... yes...” he croaked, and felt himself tipping forwards.
“Of course my darling!” she quipped sweetly, and with inhuman speed stood upright, leaving him hanging precariously as she turned back to the kitchen.
He stumbled forward and caught himself at the last moment, now treated to her utterly dense thighs struggling to pass each other as she walked back over, sashaying her ass and hips as she did, to the meal she had been preparing.
“It'll just be a moment, sweetie, take a seat.”
He looked to his side and saw a table where their dinner table usually was, but this was nothing like their normal table. It came up nearly to his shoulder, and looked very expensive. Old, dark wood seemed polished to a sheen, as if by hands that had worked it over for thousands of hours...
However, there was no chair... until he walked around and found one at the end, near the corner of the room. The seat rose up past his waist, and would leave his feet dangling a good distance from the ground. That was the only seat, though, so he pulled it out and tried to clamber up.
Other Mother, as she seemed to wish to be called, tittered at his efforts.
“Would you like a hand, sweetie?”
He spun round, nervously, as she slowly sauntered over, and he realised that was no idle comment but a threat. Burning with both effort and embarrassment, he forced himself up at last, and sat with his hands between his legs, eyes firmly upon the burnished table top.
He could see a reflection in its ridiculously shiny surface, but realised now too late he had no way to tuck his own chair in.
As Carl turned to see what the Other Mother was doing, he nearly jumped when he saw her leaning over him, not having heard her approach.
“Let me get that for you dear...” she said softly, and with frightening ease, pushed the massive chair plus his weight in without any seeming effort.
As she leaned over him, he instinctively retreated to the opposite side of the seat, but her body just kept coming. Even as tall as the chair was, there was just so much of her, and her chest soon spilled over, pressing into his side, then his shoulder, then his neck... until again she pulled back, that knowing smile as ever playing across her lips.
His own red face now stared back at him, as he tried to come to terms with what was happening in these precious moments of sanctity.
This had to be a dream, and yet, everything felt so real. Maybe dreams did feel real, he thought, as he took a moment to firmly grip the armrests of his massive chair, for more than just to confirm their solidity. His cock was practically throbbing now, and if his chair was any higher it would be drumming his heartbeat against the bottom of the table.
“Just a moment sweetie, it's almost ready...” came her melodious voice, as if deliberately trying to interrupt his thoughts.
He had seen behind the hatch, there had been nothing there. And yet, somehow, he couldn't shake the feeling that maybe there had been more to it. More than met the eye. For a moment, he remembered what Charlotte had said about things not being as they seemed... then he remembered her suffocating breasts, that kiss...
“All done!” she announced, again having appeared next to him soundlessly, and lay down a wide plate in front of him. Upon it was... the most delicious looking and smelling food he had ever known.
“And of course, a nice, warm, fresh glass of milk for my special boy...” she added, softly, and placed a glass next to him.
He lifted a trembling hand to a small fork, which he realised was quite small and childish looking, especially in comparison to everything around him, and took a bite. It was, as its appearance had suggested, utterly delicious. He couldn't help but groan in sheer satisfaction.
“Oh my baby, Mommy loves to hear how good her boy feels...” she said softly, and moved behind him, hands draping down his shoulders.
Utterly rigid, in more ways than one, he tried to move more food to his mouth. However, her fingers began to tussle with his hair, and a fingertip traced along the outside of his ear again and again, until his hand was literally shaking. At last, the inevitable happened, and with a strained grunt he dropped the fork.
“Poor baby, so messy... do you need Mommy to feed you?”
Before he could offer an objection, her breasts were pressing against him, surrounding him, spilling down over his shoulders to surround his head.
Surely, she didn't know what she was doing. This couldn't be on purpose, he told himself.
“Here we are, open wide...” she whispered directly into his ear, barely audible through the massive wall of tit-flesh which was crowding around either side of his head.
Unable to form an objection, he accepted the food, and she lavishly fed him, again and again, her breasts heaving and pressing against his scalp each time she leaned forward to get another mouthful. Fidgeting in sheer sexual distress, his mind was at war with his body. He couldn't, even in a dream, do something so uncouth. That was, well, sort of was, his mother after all.
No, his Other Mother, he corrected himself. His mommy.
Soon, he was getting light-headed, both from the fact his cock was demanding every ounce of blood be sent its way, and she sheer insanity of the situation getting to him. He let out a shuddering groan of need.
“Oh, is someone sleepy?” she asked innocently, misinterpreting the meaning for his demeanour, “I suppose it is far past your bed time. Good boys shouldn't be wandering around at this time of night, after all. Come on, lets get you in bed.”
With that, his eyes shot open as he was lifted from the chair... and she didn't put him down. Instead, she held him against her shoulder, with his crotch plunging directly into her chest. As she walked, her breasts seemed to swallow his crotch wholesale, and the rhythmic steps she took forced him to thrust against her barely-contained bosom.
Groaning needily into her shoulder, she merely patted him on the back softly, as she began to ascend the stairs. Now going into over-drive, his cock was practically trapped, the thin cloth trousers he wore to bed offering him no protection as his bodyweight was used against him. Whimpering with need, he bit his lip, until at last... she held him aloft, and laid him down on his bed.
It wasn't his bed, though. This was the Other world's bed. For a moment, he made to sit up, but pure exhaustion overtook him, and he sank into the otherworldly softness of the mattress.
“Aw, sweetie, you look so precious. Let me tuck you in.”
A thick duvet, and then a comforter, then a blanket, then a sheet, were each lifted over him and fitted around him. Under the covers, his arms were pinned to his sides, yet as one sheet after another was laid over his cock, he not-too-subtly ground against the newfound pressure they provided.
“Now sweetie, have sweet dreams, and remember the most important thing in the world...”
With that, her body swayed down over him, her face close to his, her breasts spilling all across his chest, as her hands moved down his body, getting closer and closer to his crotch.
“Mommy... loves you...” she said, whispering directly into his mouth, as at last those pillowy thick lips found his, and mashed against him in a soul-sucking kiss. Her hand began to massage his cock, barely perceptible through the sheets, and yet he was so close that it had him whining and groaning into her kiss for dear life.
On and on, her lips smacked, licked, and sucked at his mouth as her fingers delicately traced the outline of his cock, buried within, over and over. Innocently, of course. She was just tucking him in...
At last, she pressed down hard, giving him something to gain some friction against, and he frantically humped against it with all his might as her kiss threatened to smother him.
Heaving for breath, he felt his body tense, muscles tighten, stomach knot, and he finally let loose the load he'd been dying to shoot for hours. His climax sent his vision blurry, and he was no longer even pretending to return her kiss, it was entirely being forced upon him. For a solid minute, he rutted and twitched in pure ecstasy, until at last he fell back in pure exhaustion.
A few moments later, her lips at last released his, and she ran a hand down his face.
“Good night baby...” she whispered, as the world around him drifted away into a cushiony paradise.
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