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 ...