Dear Log Part 4

 August 28th: Butt worship session with Gina

Dear Log,

I’m writing this with trembling hands, my skin still humming, every breath pulling her scent deeper into my lungs. Gina. Just thinking her name makes my pulse stutter.

She appeared above me in the library like a living eclipse—her shadow cool across my tiny table, then the slow bloom of her warmth as she leaned down. Cocoa butter, yes, but layered with something richer: warm skin after a long day, the faint spice of her body oil, and underneath it all, the unmistakable throb of arousal, thick and heady, like dark honey left in the sun.

Her voice wrapped around me first—low, velvet, a rumble I felt in my ribs before I heard the words: “Come with me,Tiny.” Then her hand descended, palm wide and soft, fingers curling with effortless possession. The heat of her skin seeped into me instantly; her lifeline pressed against my back like a thick rope. She lifted me slowly, deliberately, letting me feel every shift of her muscles as she tucked me against the heavy swell of her breast. The fabric of her cropped hoodie was thin, warmed by her body; beneath it, her heartbeat thundered—deep, steady, powerful—each beat rocking me gently as she walked.

In her room, moonlight poured through the window and painted her mahogany skin in liquid silver. She turned her back to me, and the air changed—grew heavier, warmer—as she peeled away her hoodie. Then the leggings. The sound of the fabric sliding down was a slow, sensual whisper, interrupted by the soft snap when it cleared the fullest curve of her ass. No underwear. Just endless, flawless skin, the deep cleft between cheeks so round and firm they seemed sculpted from dark marble, yet impossibly soft to the touch.

She placed me on the edge of her bed, the mattress dipping slightly under my weight, and stepped back until her ass filled my entire world. The heat radiating from her was immediate, a humid wave that carried her scent straight into my lungs: rich, earthy, faintly musky, laced with the sharper tang of fresh arousal. It coated my tongue before I even touched her.

“Worship me,” she breathed, voice thick with need. Her fingers—long, strong, nails a deep crimson—reached back and parted those glorious cheeks, revealing the tight, dark ring of her asshole, already glistening faintly with her excitement, fluttering in tiny, eager pulses.

I fell forward.

My hands sank into the plush heat of her flesh first—skin so smooth it felt like warm silk over firm muscle. I pressed my face between her cheeks and inhaled deeply; the scent was overwhelming up close, intoxicating, a dark, intimate perfume that made my head spin. My lips brushed her rim, and she shivered—actually shivered—her entire massive body rippling with it.

I started with soft kisses, tasting the faint salt of her skin, the subtle bitterness that was uniquely her. Then my tongue—flat and broad at first, tracing slow, reverent circles around the sensitive pucker. She was impossibly warm there, velvet-soft, the ring tightening and releasing under each pass of my tongue. When I finally pressed the tip inside, she let out a low, guttural moan that vibrated through her hips and into my chest. The taste intensified—richer, deeper, addictive. Her inner walls were slick and scorching, clenching greedily around my tongue as I pushed deeper, thrusting in slow, deliberate strokes.

Her moans grew louder, breathier, each one rolling through her body like distant thunder. I could feel the subtle tremor in her thighs, the way her cheeks flexed and pressed closer, smothering me in soft, suffocating heat. Sweat beaded on her skin; I tasted it as it trickled down, mixing with her natural flavor. My face was slick—her arousal dripping from below, her sweat, my own saliva—until everything was wet and hot and pulsing.

“More,” she gasped, voice breaking. “Use all of you.”

I wrapped my arms as far as they would reach around one massive cheek, pressed my entire body against her hole—chest, stomach, hips grinding instinctively—and rubbed in slow, desperate circles while my tongue plunged again and again. The friction was electric; her ring fluttered wildly against my skin, hot and slick and alive. I could hear the wet sounds of her fingers working between her legs now—fast, urgent—matched by the slick slide of my mouth against her.

She started rocking back, slow at first, then harder, grinding her ass against my face with shameless need. Each push buried me deeper in warmth and scent and taste until I could barely breathe—only steal quick gasps laced with her essence. Her moans climbed higher, rawer, until her whole body went rigid.

When she came, it was cataclysmic.

Her thighs clamped around my head like warm vices. Her ass pressed back so hard I was pinned, completely enveloped. A deep, primal cry tore from her throat—long, shaking—as her ring spasmed violently around my tongue, pulse after pulse. I felt the flood of her climax even from behind: the sudden rush of wetness dripping down her thighs, the way her entire body quaked and shuddered for what felt like forever.

Only when the aftershocks faded did she ease forward, letting me gasp for air. My face was drenched, lips swollen, jaw aching—but I’d never felt more alive.

She turned then, eyes dark and glassy with satisfaction, and scooped me up. Her lips—full, soft, tasting faintly of her own lip gloss—claimed mine in a slow, deep kiss. She licked lazily across my mouth, savoring her own flavor on me, and smiled.

“Good boy,” she whispered, voice husky and sated. “You taste like me now.”

She pulled me against her chest, one massive hand cradling me possessively, and let me drift off to the thunder of her heartbeat and the lingering heat of her skin.

I am hers too!!

Completely.

Irrevocably.

To be continued ...

To be continued...

Dear Log part 3

 August 25th: Saturday Party

Dear Log:

I can’t stop thinking about last night. The Gamma Delta Gamma party—“Spin the Bottle: Giantess Edition.” The memory clings to my skin like their scent still does: warm vanilla, sweet wine, and that heavy, intoxicating arousal that filled the room.

Ten of us freshman tinies were carried in, one by one, our bare feet dangling above the floor as their massive fingers curled gently but inescapably around our torsos. Kayla—the blonde with sun-kissed skin and endless legs—lifted me last, her thumb brushing my chest as she smiled down. Then she tipped us all into the huge glass bottle waiting in the center of the room. We slid down the smooth, curved neck in a helpless rush, landing in a warm, trembling pile at the bottom. The glass amplified every sound: their laughter rolling like distant thunder, the soft rustle of fabric as they shifted on the couches, the wet click of lips when one of them took a sip of wine and sighed.

When the spinning started, the bottle turned with a low, resonant hum that vibrated through the glass and into our bones. Each time it slowed, the neck pointed at one of the giantesses, and her hand descended—fingers thick as tree trunks to us, nails glossy and perfect. They plucked their prize with deliberate care, sometimes trailing a fingertip along a tiny chest or thigh just to watch us shiver.

Then came the bowl. Pink slips of paper, folded small. Each winner drew one and read it aloud in a slow, husky voice that made the air feel thicker.

Roxy drew first: “Foot Worship.” She slipped off her sandal, revealing the soft, warm arch of her bare foot. Ryan disappeared beneath it, pressed firmly against her sole. We could hear the faint, wet sounds of his tongue working, her toes curling lazily in pleasure, a low moan escaping her lips.

Samantha went next: “Butt Worship.” She turned, hooked her thumbs into her waistband, and slowly peeled her leggings down just enough to expose the smooth, rounded swell of her ass. Rick was lifted between those massive cheeks, nestled deep into warm, silky flesh. Her sigh was long and satisfied as she rocked gently, savoring his struggles against her skin.

Then the bottle pointed at Samantha again. Her fingers came for me. She lifted me out slowly, letting my body drag against the rim of the bottle so I felt every inch of the cool glass before the sudden heat of her palm. She drew her slip, bit her lip as she read it, then held it up with a wicked grin: “Clit Sucking.”

The room erupted in delighted gasps and cheers. Samantha carried me to the biggest couch, reclined back, and parted her thighs. The scent hit me first—warm, musky, unmistakably her. She slipped me beneath the soft fabric of her shorts, pressing me firmly against the slick, swollen heat of her clit. It throbbed under my chest, my face, my entire body. She was already soaked; I could taste her the moment she held me there. Her fingers pinned me in place while her hips rolled in slow, greedy circles. Each moan vibrated through her body and into mine, deeper, louder, until she arched and shuddered, flooding my world with wet heat and the rhythmic pulse of her climax. When it passed, she exhaled a long, trembling sigh, stroked me once with a fingertip slick with her own arousal, and casually dropped me back into the bottle.

The rest blurred together in a haze of heat and scent:

Gina drawing “Butt Insertion” and slowly, deliberately pressing Tom deep inside her until only his feet remained visible, clenching rhythmically around him while she bit her lip and watched us watch her.

Tiffany’s “Full Insertion,” taking Ethan, completely, her fingers working him in and out with shameless, wet sounds that echoed in the bottle.

Endless foot worship, tongues tracing arches and between toes slick with sweat; pussy worship with tinies buried face-first in slick folds; breast smothering until we gasped for air against soft, suffocating warmth.

By the end we were all drenched—their arousal, our sweat, the faint salt of tears none of us would admit to. When they finally tipped the bottle and we spilled out onto the towel, we lay there trembling, marked by their scents, their taste still on our lips.

Samantha crouched down, her face filling the sky above us. She brushed a single fingertip across my cheek, smearing a trace of herself there, and whispered, “You were perfect, little one. So eager.”

I hate how my body responded. I hate how part of me already aches for the next time.

College is going to ruin me… and I’m starting to want it to.

To be continued ...

GTS running with her pet

 

GTS Redhead collects tinies

 

La Mejor Cola del Valle dancing GTS

 

La Mejor Cola del Valle GTS version

 

Horny GTS Secretary

 

Therapy Part 3

 Therapy – Part 3 

By Ramvo 

Domination by horny mistresses continues

Sunday Evening

The bedroom reeked now: heavy vanilla undercut by raw sweat, spent sex, and the faint metallic tang of fear-sweat that no candle could mask. The lamps had been dimmed to dying embers; long shadows stretched like fingers across sweat-damp sheets.

Timmy no longer lay peacefully on Jenny’s breast.

He was pinned facedown across the thick, ridged center of Maggy’s right nipple—arms and legs splayed wide, wrists and ankles lashed tight to the pebbled areola with fine black threads torn from one of Jenny’s ruined stockings. Every shallow breath Maggy took lifted and dropped him like a living yo-yo; every heartbeat thudded through the rubbery flesh beneath him, rattling his teeth.

He had screamed himself hoarse hours ago. Now he only whimpered—small, broken animal sounds.

Jenny knelt astride Maggy’s waist, facing backward, her plump bubble-butt hovering inches above Timmy’s tiny prison. The blonde’s cheeks were flushed crimson from earlier spankings; handprints still glowed angrily across both globes. Between them, her asshole winked—still slick and slightly gaping from where Maggy had spent twenty savage minutes fist-fucking her while Timmy watched, helpless, from the headboard.

“Time to turn up the volume,” Maggy said, voice low and gravelly. She pinched her own nipple between thumb and forefinger—slowly increasing pressure until the tender bud compressed around Timmy’s body like a fleshy vise. His ribs creaked audibly. A thin scream tore from his throat.

Jenny giggled—high and cruel—and lowered herself until the sweaty cleft of her ass swallowed the tiny bound figure whole. Maggy’s nipple disappeared between those plump cheeks with a wet squelch. Timmy’s world became crushing darkness, suffocating heat, and the obscene musk of Jenny’s most private places. Her asshole flexed once—deliberately—kissing the top of his head before sliding down to trap his face against the puckered ring.

“Feel that?” Jenny purred, grinding in slow, filthy circles. “That’s where bad boys go when they stop being fun.”

Maggy released her nipple. The sudden release of pressure sent a jolt of blood back into the swollen flesh; Timmy convulsed as the areola swelled around him again, mashing him deeper into Jenny’s crack. The blonde moaned and rocked harder—smearing him back and forth across her twitching hole like a living wipe.

“Beg,” Maggy ordered.

Timmy tried. The word came out mangled, muffled by sweaty skin and pulsing muscle.

“Louder.”

He screamed it this time—raw, shredded: “Please—please—please—”

Jenny lifted just enough to let him breathe, then slammed back down, smothering the plea mid-word. She laughed, delighted.

“He’s still got some fight,” she said over her shoulder. “Let’s fix that.”

Maggy reached between Jenny’s thighs and spread the blonde’s dripping cunt wide with two fingers. The inner lips parted with a sticky sound; a thick rope of arousal drooled onto Timmy’s upturned face. Jenny shifted forward, aligning herself, then sat—hard.

Timmy’s head and shoulders vanished into Jenny’s soaked pussy in one brutal plunge. The walls clamped like a fist. She didn’t give him time to adjust—she simply started riding, bouncing with short, vicious strokes that slapped her ass against Maggy’s mound over and over. Each descent drove him deeper; each lift dragged him halfway out only to ram him back in again. The wet, rhythmic squelching filled the room like obscene applause.

Maggy watched, eyes glittering, one hand fisting her own cunt in time with Jenny’s rhythm while the other reached back to spread her own ass cheeks wide.

“Deeper,” she growled.

Jenny obeyed instantly. She rose onto her knees, angled her hips, and dropped with all her weight.

Timmy disappeared to the waist inside her spasming channel. Jenny froze there—impaled and trembling—then began to grind in slow, punishing circles, stirring him like a swizzle stick inside her molten core.

Maggy’s voice cut through the wet sounds: “Now the other hole.”

Jenny lifted off with an obscene pop. Timmy dangled from her cunt lips for a heartbeat—coated head to toe in thick, glistening cream—before Jenny flipped around and presented her ass directly over Maggy’s waiting mouth.

Maggy didn’t hesitate. She sealed her lips around Jenny’s still-gaping asshole and sucked—hard. Timmy’s body was yanked forward by the vacuum until his face mashed against the inside of Jenny’s rectal ring. The muscle flexed once, twice—then opened.

He slid inside headfirst, dragged by the powerful suction of Maggy’s mouth and the greedy clench of Jenny’s bowels. The tunnel was tighter here, hotter, dirtier. Ridged walls rippled around him like a living peristaltic wave, pulling him inexorably deeper with every swallow.

Jenny moaned—long and broken—as Maggy’s tongue speared inside alongside Timmy, forcing him even farther up the spasming chute. When the doctor finally pulled back with a wet gasp, a glistening string of saliva and ass-juice connected her lips to Jenny’s hole. Timmy’s kicking feet were just visible—framed obscenely by the stretched pink pucker—before another hard clench sucked them out of sight.

Inside, the pressure was apocalyptic.

Every heartbeat slammed through the walls like artillery. Every breath Jenny took dragged him forward another fraction of an inch. When she clenched—deliberately, viciously—the tunnel became a crushing fist that squeezed the air from his lungs and forced a thin, reedy scream from his mouth.

Maggy lay back, pulling Jenny down on top of her so their bodies aligned chest-to-chest, cunt-to-cunt. She wrapped long legs around the smaller woman’s waist and locked her ankles.

“Ride it out,” Maggy whispered against Jenny’s ear. “Make him feel every inch of what he’s become.”

Jenny began to grind—slow at first, then faster, harder—using the tiny body trapped in her ass like an internal dildo. Each roll of her hips drove him deeper; each clench made the tunnel spasm around him in violent waves. Maggy matched her rhythm, grinding their soaked pussies together until the wet slap-slap-slap became a continuous roar.

When Jenny came, it was cataclysmic.

Her asshole clamped down like a steel trap. The muscular ring convulsed in long, rolling waves that dragged Timmy helplessly back and forth through the spasming tunnel. A hot flood of her juices poured down around him, coating the walls, making every slide slicker, faster, more punishing. She screamed—raw and animal—hips bucking so violently that Maggy had to pin her down to keep her from flying off.

Maggy followed seconds later. Her own orgasm triggered a sympathetic clench in Jenny’s bowels; the two women’s bodies locked together in a shuddering, sweating knot while Timmy was battered between contracting walls like a rag in a washing machine.

When it finally ended, Jenny collapsed forward onto Maggy’s chest, panting. Maggy stroked her sweat-soaked hair with surprising gentleness.

A long minute passed.

Then Jenny reached back, spread her cheeks wide, and bore down.

Timmy emerged—slowly, reluctantly—ejected headfirst from her gaping, quivering asshole in a rush of hot air and thick slime. He landed on Maggy’s sternum with a wet slap, limp, coated head to toe in ass-juice and shame.

Neither woman spoke for several heartbeats.

Finally, Maggy lifted his tiny, broken body between thumb and forefinger and held him up to the lamplight. His chest rose and fell in shallow, ragged gasps. His eyes—wide and glassy—stared at nothing.

Maggy smiled—a slow, satisfied predator’s smile.

“Say it,” she commanded softly.

Timmy’s lips moved. No sound at first. Then, barely audible:

“…thank you… Mistress…”

Jenny purred and kissed Maggy’s neck.

“Therapy complete?” she asked.

Maggy turned Timmy slowly, inspecting him like a piece of jewelry.

“Not yet,” she murmured. “But he’s very, very close.”

She lowered him between their joined bodies—nestling him in the hot, slippery crease where cunt met cunt—then pressed their mounds together one final time, sealing him inside the suffocating furnace of their combined heat.

“Sleep there,” Maggy whispered. “Dream of how small you are. How useless. How owned.”

Jenny giggled sleepily and clenched once—softly.

Timmy twitched once inside their joined sexes.

Then he went still.

Perfectly still.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Tribute to Kazarinka 2

 

Tribute to Kazarinka: Dancing Isa