Insatiable Pussy: Tiny Blonde's Growing Obsession

Magda locked the deadbolt and stood in the narrow entry of her apartment with her keys still clenched in her fist, breathing through her mouth like she had run the last block. She was twenty-four, the smallest woman on the fourth floor of the accounting firm where she answered phones and fetched files, a tiny blonde who had to rise onto her toes to reach the top drawer of the supply cabinet. None of that smallness had saved her. The walk from the subway had rubbed the seam of her panties against a cunt that had been aching since lunch, and the ache had teeth.

She dropped her bag. The pencil skirt came down her hips in one impatient shove, and she stepped out of her panties in the hallway because she could not stand the damp cling of them another second. The cotton peeled away with a thin shining string. Between her narrow thighs her pussy was already swollen, the lips puffy and dark pink, her clit a hard little pearl that jumped when the apartment air touched it. She pressed two fingers in. They vanished to the knuckle with no resistance at all, slick closing over them like a mouth that had forgotten how to bite. Three fingers. She worked them standing against the wall, curled them, fucked herself until her thighs trembled, and the orgasm that finally flickered through her was thin and mean and gone before she could moan. It left her wetter. Hungrier. She stared at her glistening hand and understood, with a hot flush that was half shame and half fury, that her body was finished with anything that fit easily.

In the bedroom the nightstand drawer told the same story. The slim vibrator she had once loved buzzed against her clit and made her jerk, but when she pushed it inside it was a rumor, a polite suggestion her cunt swallowed and forgot. The silicone cock she had bought six months ago, blushing in the shop, the one she had thought ambitious, slid home in a single wet stroke and bumped nothing that mattered. She rode it on her back with her knees flung wide, small breasts barely shifting, ponytail stuck to her neck, and came in a tight little spasm that felt like a door slamming on an empty room. Her hole fluttered around the toy and then relaxed, loose, unimpressed, leaking onto the sheet. She pulled it out and watched her pussy stay open for a second, a soft dark O, before it slowly closed. Not enough. Not even close.

She lay there breathing hard, one hand spread over the flat of her stomach, and the wanting did not ebb. It pooled. It had been doing this for weeks, ever since ordinary orgasms had stopped landing, ever since she had started waking at three in the morning with her hips grinding the mattress and her fingers already buried, chasing a fullness her own hand could not give. Tonight she was done pretending a better toy would fix it. Tonight she was going to search the apartment until something fit the hunger.

She got up naked, tiny and flushed, and started in the bathroom because the candles were there.

The thick one lived on the edge of the tub, a cream pillar she burned on Sundays, wider than her wrist at the base and smooth as glass where the wax had settled. She ran it under warm water until the chill left it, then coated it in the lubricant she kept for the toys that no longer worked, her fingers shaking as she smeared the clear gel in long strokes. Back on the bed she knelt, spread herself with two fingers, and set the rounded top against her entrance. The first push was a sweet, obscene stretch. Her rim clung and then yielded, and the candle sank in a slow, widening glide that made her mouth fall open. Inch by inch the thickness increased. She felt every slick millimeter, the way her walls had to rearrange themselves around something that did not give, the cool-then-warm pressure seating deeper than her fingers ever reached. When the widest part of the middle slid past her entrance she gasped, a broken little sound, and her cunt gripped so hard the candle stalled.

“Oh—fuck,” she whispered, and bore down.

It went. She took it until her fingers, wrapped near the base, met the wet heat of her own body, and then she held still, shaking, stuffed in a way that finally registered. Her belly felt full. Her clit throbbed in the open air. She drew the candle out halfway and the drag was exquisite, her hole clutching, reluctant to let the girth go, then she pushed it back in and the stretch bloomed all over again, hotter, wetter, a thick splitting sensation that ran up her spine. She fucked herself with it in short, greedy strokes, the wax shining, her arousal running down over her knuckles and spotting the sheet. For a minute she thought this was it. Her hips rolled. Her free hand found her clit and rubbed in tight circles, and the pleasure climbed, bright and mean.

Then her cunt adjusted. The grip loosened. The candle, thick as it was, became something she could take without fighting, and the ache behind the pleasure opened its mouth again and asked for more. She shoved it deep and ground against the base and came, a sharp little cry torn out of her, thighs snapping shut around her own wrist. The orgasm was better than the toy. It was not enough. When it faded she was still impaled, still pulsing, and the emptiness around the candle’s limits made her want to sob. She pulled it free with a wet sound and watched her pussy gape, flushed and shining, before it fluttered closed. A thread of lube and her own slick clung to the wax. She set the candle aside like a failed exam.

The lotion bottle was next, the big one from the shower, heavy glass with a broad shoulder and a neck she could get a hand around. She dried it, warmed it between her palms, and slicked it until it gleamed. On her back this time, knees bent and spread so wide her hips ached, she fed the neck into herself and felt the easy slide, insulting in its ease, and then the flare of the shoulder arrived at her entrance and stopped her breath. That was different. That was a demand. She held the bottle with both hands—her fingers barely met around it—and pressed, circling, coaxing, feeling her rim thin and burn in a bright, wanted way as it tried to open for something her body had not been built to take. The stretch was a slow white bloom behind her eyes. She bit her lip, breathed, pushed, and the shoulder popped past her entrance with a shock that made her yelp and grab the sheet.

Full. Suddenly, brutally full. The glass sat inside her, cold at the core and huge at the rim, and her cunt clenched around the invasion in helpless ripples she could feel all the way into her belly. She stayed like that, trembling, one hand on the bottle and one hand flying over her clit, and the pleasure was so thick she thought she might cry from it. Every tiny shift of her hips dragged that hard shoulder against the sensitive ring of muscle, a relentless widening, a slick, obscene pressure that made her toes curl. She came hard, back arching off the bed, a raw sound scraping out of her throat, her pussy milking the unyielding glass in pulses that shook her small frame.

And still, when the spasms eased, the hunger was there. Louder. The bottle filled her entrance and then narrowed; beyond the shoulder there was nothing her walls could grip, a cruel emptiness past the stretch. She worked it anyway, fucking the flare in and out until her rim was puffy and oversensitive and she was dripping down onto the sheet in a steady leak, frantic little whimpers spilling out of her with every thrust. It was not massive enough. It was not the thing. She eased it free, gasping at the sudden hollow ache, and lay there with her thighs open, watching her hole try and fail to close all the way. A fat bead of wet rolled out of her and down the cleft of her ass. She was shaking. She was nowhere near done.

The kitchen was colder. She stood naked in the fridge light, blonde hair wrecked, nipples tight, cunt swollen and shining between her legs, and she looked at the produce drawer the way a starving woman looks at a locked door. The cucumber was thick, dark green, ridged, longer than her forearm. She took it to the counter, washed it, and coated it in lube until the bumps gleamed. Bent over the counter, cheek to the cool laminate, she reached back and pressed the blunt end to her soaked entrance. It went in easier than it had any right to, her pussy so loose and greedy now that the first inches vanished in a slick rush, the ridges dragging over nerve endings that made her moan into her own arm. She pushed until her hand met her body and then she fucked herself with it, hard, the wet slap of it obscene in the quiet kitchen, her small ass rocking, juice and lube running down her inner thighs in warm tracks.

Good. Better. The texture was filthy, each ridge a separate stroke against her front wall, and she rubbed her clit against the heel of her hand and came standing up, knees buckling, crying out at the ceiling. The orgasm rolled longer this time, a deep clenching that tried to crush the cucumber and could not. When it passed she was panting, drooling a little onto the counter, and the cucumber was still just a cucumber. Long, yes. Filling, almost. Not wide enough at the place that mattered. Her cunt fluttered around it and asked, plainly, for something that would make her fight.

She found the zucchini behind the lettuce, paler, heavier, absurdly thick through the middle, a household joke of a vegetable that she had bought for soup and was now holding like a dare. Her hands looked ridiculous around it. She slicked it until it dripped on the floor, then lowered herself to the kitchen tile on her back because she needed both hands and all her weight. The blunt end kissed her hole and she had to stop, breathing, circling it, feeling how much wider this was than the candle, than the bottle’s shoulder, than anything she had put in herself in her life. Her rim stretched. Burned, sweetly. She pressed and the head of it sank, slow, relentless, opening her in a thick, widening slide that made her eyes roll. She took an inch. Another. The girth swelled as it went, and her pussy had to bloom around it, walls dragged thin and hot, every slick sensation enormous and specific. She could feel herself gaping to take it. She could feel the wet give, the reluctant clutch, the way her body protested and then yielded because she wanted this more than she wanted comfort.

“Yes,” she hissed, voice cracked. “Yes, come on, take it, you greedy—fuck—”

Halfway, the thickest part lodged at her entrance and would not go. She rubbed her clit in frantic circles, bore down, rocked her hips, and worked it in a fraction at a time, sobbing with the effort and the pleasure braided so tight she could not tell them apart. When the widest point finally slipped inside, the sound she made was not pretty. Her cunt sealed around the narrower length beyond it and gripped like a fist, and for a blazing minute she was full in a way that reached the hunger. She fucked herself with short, desperate strokes, the zucchini glistening, her hole stretched shiny and pink around it, arousal pouring out of her onto the tile. She came twice, back to back, the second one ripping a scream out of her that bounced off the cabinets, her tiny body jackknifing, thighs shaking so hard the vegetable nearly slipped from her wet hands.

Then the peak fell away and the zucchini, huge as it had felt, was only a vegetable again. Her cunt had learned it. The grip eased. The ache returned, louder, meaner, a cavernous wanting that made her laugh once, wild and breathless, and pull the thing free with a lewd, sucking sound. Her pussy stayed open. She could see it, flushed and swollen and not closed, leaking a puddle onto the kitchen floor. She was frantic now. Dripping. Empty in a way that felt like an emergency.

The baseball bat was in the hall closet, left over from a company picnic she had not wanted to attend. She dragged it out with lube-slick hands, naked and shaking, and knelt on the living room rug because the bedroom felt too far. The handle was taped, thick, the grip wider than the cucumber and firm under her fingers, tapering toward a barrel she knew she could not take and did not need to. She coated the handle until the tape shone, then set the end against her ruined, hungry hole and pushed.

It went in with a stretch that made her gasp and grab the rug. Thicker than the candle. Harder than the zucchini. The tape dragged, textured, and her cunt swallowed the increasing girth in greedy, fluttering pulls, widening around it, slick pouring down the handle and over her fingers. She took the handle deep, deeper, until the thickness made her belly feel packed and her rim burned in that bright, perfect way, and then she started to ride it, kneeling, working her hips in frantic little bounces, one hand braced on the floor and the other grinding her swollen clit. The wet sounds were shameless. Her ponytail swung. Her small tits bounced. She was dripping onto the rug in a steady patter, so soaked the tape could barely hold friction, and every downstroke speared her open a little more.

“More,” she begged the empty room, voice hoarse already. “It’s not—fuck, it’s not enough, I need—”

She came on the bat and it wrecked her, a clawing orgasm that made her scream into her own shoulder and grind down until her thighs screamed, her pussy clamping the thick handle in vicious pulses. She kept moving through it, frantic, chasing the next one, because the second the peak cracked open she could feel the limits of the thing, the places it did not reach, the girth that was only almost. She fucked herself harder, sobbing, dripping, desperate, the handle slick to her wrist, her hole stretched and greedy and still asking. When she finally yanked it free she was shaking so hard she had to sit down on the rug, legs splayed, cunt gaping and leaking, chest heaving. The bat rolled away. She stared at the living room through a blur of unshed tears and want, and her eyes landed on the floor lamp by the couch.

It was an old one, heavy, the kind with a wide weighted base meant not to tip, a thick pedestal of smooth darkened metal that flared at the bottom into a broad, obscene disc and rose in a column easily as thick as her forearm, thicker, with a rounded collar where the pole met the weight. She had walked past it a thousand times. She looked at it now and her pussy clenched on nothing so hard she whimpered.

She crawled to it. The base was dusty; she wiped it with her discarded panties, then fetched the lube and poured it with a shaking hand, coating the thick rise of the pedestal until the metal gleamed, working the gel into every curve, slicking it obscenely, again and again, until it shone like something made to be fucked. Her heart was hammering. Her cunt was a wet, open ache. She stood over the base, tiny and naked, blonde hair stuck to her cheeks, and lowered herself into a deep squat, feet planted wide on the rug, one hand on the couch for balance and the other reaching down to hold herself open.

The slick metal kissed her hole and she had to stop, panting, because the girth was a different category from everything that had come before. Wide. Unyielding. Truly massive against her small body. She circled her hips, rubbing her swollen entrance over the coated curve, getting it wetter with her own flood, and then she bore down.

The stretch was immediate and enormous. Her rim opened in a slow, burning bloom, thinning around the thick pedestal, and she sank by fractions, gasping, cursing, feeling every slick millimeter as her body was forced to widen past anything the candle or the bottle or the bat had asked of it. The pressure was a bright, overwhelming fullness that started at her entrance and climbed inward, reshaping her, making her belly tighten and her thighs quake. She paused halfway, trembling in the squat, impaled on a household lamp, and the sensation was so huge she laughed once, wrecked, and rubbed her clit because if she did not she was going to fly apart before she even took it.

“Come on,” she told herself, voice shredded. “You wanted this. Take it. Take all of it, you insatiable little—”

She sank. The wide girth slid deeper, a relentless, slick invasion, her cunt gripping and gaping around it in the same breath, walls dragged tight and hot over the unyielding metal. When she bottomed out as far as her body would allow, seated in a deep squat with the thick base buried in her, the feeling detonated. Full. Split. Stuffed so completely her tiny frame shook around it, her hole stretched shiny and taut around the gleaming pedestal, arousal running down the metal in thick rivulets. She stayed there, stuffed and stunned, rubbing her swollen clit in fast, desperate circles, and the first orgasm hit her like a blow.

She screamed. It tore out of her, hoarse and raw, and her pussy convulsed around the enormous object, gaping and gripping, milking metal that would not yield. Pleasure crashed through her in white pulses. She felt herself squirt, a hot sudden gush that splattered the base and her own thighs, and the release only made the fullness filthier, wetter, more obscene. She did not climb off. She could not. The hunger, met at last by something truly massive, turned frantic instead of quiet.

She rode it. Deep squatting strokes at first, lifting her small body and sinking back down, the thick girth dragging out of her and spearing back in, each bounce a wet, stretching shock that made her cry out. Then faster. Frantic. Her thighs burned and she did not care. She bounced on the lamp base with abandon, one hand braced on the couch, the other flying over her clit, her cunt making filthy sucking sounds around the slick metal, gaping wide on every upstroke and gripping hard on every downstroke. Juice and lube splashed. Her tits bounced. Her voice broke into a continuous hoarse moan, words falling apart into please and fuck and more. The second orgasm built under the first before it had even finished, a savage tightening low in her belly, and when it broke she squirted again, a hard clear rush that soaked the base and the rug, her hole fluttering wildly around the girth it could barely hold.

She did not stop. She rode through it, frantic bouncing strokes, grinding her clit, impaled to the limit of her tiny frame, chasing the shattering thing she could feel gathering behind her eyes. The third orgasm destroyed her. It slammed through her so hard her vision whited out, a scream ripping her throat raw, her whole body seizing in the squat as her insatiable pussy gushed and clenched and gushed again, gripping the enormous object in violent, helpless spasms, squirting in hot pulses that ran down the metal and pooled beneath her. She shook. She sobbed. She kept rubbing, kept sinking, kept taking it, because every climax only proved how much her cunt could hold and how much it still wanted, and the pleasure was so vast it felt like it might split her open and she wanted that too.

When the last wave finally dropped her, she could not hold the squat. She lifted off with a long, wet, obscene sound, her stretched hole releasing the thick base reluctantly, gaping, fluttering, leaking a mess of slick and squirt down her thighs. Her legs gave out. She collapsed onto the rug beside the lamp, on her side, trembling so hard her teeth chattered, chest heaving, voice gone to a hoarse whisper of breath. The base glistened, pussy-soaked, shining with lube and her spend, a thick obscene trophy in the lamplight. Beside it she lay wrecked and blissful, tiny and flushed, blonde hair plastered to her face, one hand resting weakly on her lower belly where she could still feel the ghost of that girth.

Her hole would not close. It twitched and leaked, stretched and swollen and still softly pulsing, a warm trickle running out of her onto the rug with every aftershock. The emptiness was already organizing itself into a question. She stared at the gleaming base through half-lidded eyes, spent and shaking and smiling a small, ruined smile, and the hunger, fed at last, did not leave. It stretched. It looked past the lamp, past the bat and the vegetables and the candles, past the walls of the apartment, and it wondered, with a clarity that frightened her even through the bliss, what she would have to hunt next.

Nothing she owned was going to be enough, and the wanting had only just learned how to grow.