He was sitting in his living room the way everyone else did on Sunday nights. Nothing good on TV, nothing he wanted to stream, the buzz of every swig he had swallowed conjuring numbness from directional thinking. He was grateful for that. Focusing now would have been unwise. When he aimed his thoughts, they invariably hit the target, and he worried himself into a sleepless night. He couldn’t do that tonight. Tomorrow was going to be hell at work. Instead, he filled his lungs with calming air, conjured up his Music-For-Jerking-Off playlist, almost hearing imagined disapproval in Alexa’s slightly robotic voice when she fired it up and Paul Ferguson’s sick beats bathed the walls with the right rhythm. His groin tingled, and he wished he could command his Echo to make real his heart’s desire at that moment, but a pathetic imitation on Pornhub would have to do.
With one fingertip, he started scaling down the wall of bookmarks on the screen, drinking in every cum-filled memory, trying to feel something for any of those links, looking for punctuation in his arousal, knowing the scenes and scripts by heart, his unforgiving penis growing harder as he sighed and picked a video that turned him on and revolted him at the same time. The facesitting woman beginning to grind a hapless man’s face on the screen looked like she might be handicapped, but he loved the way she lingered when it was right, just after the face cushion under her crotch began to squirm for air, just before she went in for the kill.
He pulled down his boxers and lassoed his cock with one hand when he felt the echoes of a tremor traveling through the ground. He first assigned it to Keane’s maudlin tune bounding from the speakers, replacing the moans and screams muted on the TV screen, but the exteroceptive caress invading his every cell told him how different that beat was. Like an earthquake trying to play the drums, savant in energy, and somehow aimed at him.
Fuck, she’s back, he thought, horrified. His blood ran cold everywhere but to his cock, where he watched a treacherous five-drop spill reveal a truth his body knew but he fought as he pulled up his waistband and waited. She was coming for him. He knew that just as well as every man before him had known he was chosen for the night. His heart pounded so hard it made him nauseated, but not a single drop of vodka left his stomach as the tremors grew, and his house danced to the music of her massive feet digging into asphalt, cracking it like saltines crumbled into soup.
Closer, closest now, so close the framed print on the wall of a woman embracing Earth jumped off the wall in a suicidal leap that shattered the glass that had encased it. From the speakers, “Welcome To The Boomtown” leaned into his ears like an I-told-you-so. When the booming assault on cracker-like streets stopped in front of his house, he could do nothing except sink deep into the back of his couch, David & David scoring the soundtrack of his roof as she began to tear it away from the rest of his house, the way women open a music box containing a precious ring.
Plaster, insulation, splintered wood rained down on him, the power to his house cut off and replaced by the power of her warmth, her face barely visible in the sudden darkness as the beginning of “Dark Side of the Gym” cut off suddenly. No more light but what traveled from blocks away, her shins heedless of power lines as they always were when she made one of her occasional grand entrances. There would be no sirens, no warning shots, no cavalry. The city knew better than to interfere when the moon filled with her shape, and the air everyone breathed had a gender and a size.
She breathed him in, almost an insurance of what he was. He looked up and felt probed by nostrils he could not quite distinguish in the obliterating silhouette of her head as she bent in and looked down at him, holding the severed roof of his house away from the rest of the house, now a hinged box, he the treasure. He made himself breathe as well, inhaling every hormone wafting away from her like steam from a boiling pot. His groin was instantly brought back to life.
“May I help you?” he offered weakly.
“Maybe,” she thundered, sky-shaped.
“Tell me what to do.”
“Don’t lie to me. Ever. And don’t look away.”
“Not even white lies. And I wouldn’t dream of looking away.”
“How long do I have?”
“What do you mean?”
“You are going to collect me and kill me like you killed the rest. How long before I die?”
“Is that what you think I do?”
“Uh… well… the men you take, they are never seen again…”
“And you think they are dead?”
“I give life. I’ve never done anything differently.”
He didn’t think that was an answer, but there was a finality to her words he didn’t want to join.
“What may I give you?”
He heard her smile, saliva clicking against the inner wall of her lips as they pulled back, a gleam of moon bouncing off those white boulders dozens of feet away, and hitting him square in the chest.
“Give me everything.”
He stood then, never breaking what he hoped was eye contact, his legs unsteady as his neck craned in her direction.
“I’m yours. Take me, giantess.”
Her arm moved then, tendons and muscles moving as it contracted to bring her hand over the edge of the wall, a shapely darkness that pushed warm air in his direction before it arrived, grasping his form, lifting it off his carpeted floor with effortless grace, five massive lengths curving to embrace him in an instant orgy, pushing him forward and back in a dance as old as time before he was fully encircled in flesh.
He felt himself lift off, a rocket into space, her fist the ship that held him at just the right tightness, the kind that screams a warning between a crushing death and a grip of ownership. He felt possessed. He was no longer his own self. He belonged to those fingers, that hand, that arm, and the nature that dictated them. Into the grooves of her meaty palm, feeling them like lips, he deposited kiss after kiss and began to sing music that was just for her ears.
She never returned for another man.