A full day with her (warning... this ones long)

The morning light filtered through our bedroom blinds, golden and quiet—but everything in my body hummed with aftershocks from the night before.

Rachel’s arm was draped around my waist, her breath warm on my neck, her hand resting possessively on my hip. I stirred under her touch, and she shifted closer. I could feel her against me—warm, heavy, already growing hard again.

I turned my head slightly. She was awake, eyes dark with that familiar look that always sent heat straight to my gut.

“Good morning,” she said, voice low and teasing.

I shivered. “Morning.”

Her fingers traced my waist, slipping lower, grazing across the smooth skin of my lower back. She kissed my shoulder softly.

“I need to know how much more you can take,” she murmured.

I gasped as her hand slid lower, cupping me from behind. My body was already responding—sensitive, pliant, and eager.

She rolled me onto my stomach with ease. Her hands spread me gently, her thumbs parting me just enough to expose how slick and ready I still was. She sighed with pleasure.

“Still so soft,” she whispered. “Still open for me.”

Her fingers pressed in slowly—one, then two—curling expertly, testing me. I moaned into the pillow, my body arching into her touch.

“You’re already so stretched,” she said, her voice filled with admiration. “But you can take more.”

I whimpered, nodding.

She climbed over me, her body dwarfing mine now. She was taller than ever, her presence heavier, stronger. I felt the weight of her cock resting between my cheeks, warm and firm.

She didn’t push in yet. She waited.

“You want it?” she asked.

“Yes,” I breathed. “I want it. I need it.”

Rachel began to press forward, guiding herself inside slowly. I gasped, gripping the sheets as she stretched me inch by inch. The sensation was deep, overwhelming, and perfect. I could feel every pulse, every twitch of her as she sank deeper.

She moved carefully at first—letting me feel it all—before picking up the rhythm. My moans spilled freely now, her hands gripping my hips as she thrust, steady and purposeful.

My body had changed. I was smaller now, tighter, more sensitive—and every movement lit me up. She was watching me, studying my reactions, pushing deeper when she felt me clench around her.

“You’re taking it so well,” she growled, her voice close to my ear. “You were made for this.”

My moans turned to cries. She was everywhere at once—inside me, around me, over me. Her body surrounded mine, possessed it.

The hours melted away.

She changed positions whenever she wanted: flat on my back, curled in her lap, bent over her thigh. Every time she entered me, I felt smaller, more hers. Her dominance wasn’t just physical—it was total. And I loved every second of it.

When we finally collapsed together, slick with sweat and tangled in each other, she whispered one last thing in my ear.

“Tomorrow, you’ll wake up even more perfect.”

And I believed her.

Later that morning, Rachel disappeared into the closet with a mischievous grin. I sat on the edge of the bed, still sore, still flushed, still glowing in the aftermath of her relentless affection. When she returned, her arms were full of clothes—bright, soft, stretchy, colorful. Nothing like anything I’d worn before.

“I thought you might want to try something new,” she said, laying the pieces out on the bed. “Something that suits your new shape. Your new place.”

I blinked at them. Tiny crop tops. Soft mesh shorts. Tank tops that could barely be called shirts. Even a few silky bodysuits and a pair of pastel panties that looked impossibly small.

“You expect me to fit in those?” I asked with a nervous laugh.

“I expect you to try.” Her grin widened. “And maybe… we’ll see what happens.”

I picked up a lavender crop top and tried to pull it over my head. It clung to my shoulders, barely making it past my chest before snagging.

Rachel watched, arms folded, her eyes hungry.

“Too tight,” I muttered.

“Try the shorts,” she said.

I stepped into them. They clung to my thighs and hips, but stopped halfway up.

“This isn’t going to work.” I started to peel them back off.

Then I felt it.

A wave pulsed through me, soft and strange and warm.

I gasped, stumbling slightly. Rachel was suddenly taller again—or no… I was shorter.

She stepped forward, cupping my cheek. “There we go,” she whispered. “Let it happen.”

The shorts slid higher on their own as my hips narrowed just slightly. My skin prickled, then flushed. I looked down at my arms—smooth, pale, flawless.

I held my breath and looked in the mirror. My features had softened again. My cheeks were flushed, lashes longer, lips fuller. My body was delicate, petite, and balanced perfectly—like I’d always belonged in something tight and sheer and teasing.

Rachel stepped behind me, resting her chin on my shoulder.

“You’re stunning,” she whispered. “Like you were made to be my perfect little doll.”

I blushed, tugging the crop top back down. It fit now. Barely—but perfectly.

She turned me toward her and kissed me hard.

Then she guided me toward the bed.

And I knew whatever outfit I wore next… it would come off just as easily.

The rest of the morning drifted by like a dream.

I stayed in the outfit Rachel picked for me—mesh shorts that left almost nothing to the imagination and a soft crop that barely hugged my chest. My skin felt electric, like it had just been moisturized, shaved, and kissed all at once. Every movement was light, every brush of fabric against my body a whisper of pleasure.

Rachel couldn’t stop staring.

She’d drift behind me while I walked through the apartment, her hand on my lower back, her lips brushing my neck. Sometimes she’d just grab my waist, squeeze my hips, and murmur things that made my knees weak.

“Do you know how pretty you look right now?” she’d say. Or, “I love watching you walk around like you were made for my hands.”

By midday, I was flustered and flushed—and she knew it.

I was folding laundry in the bedroom when she came up behind me, pressing her chest against my back, her cock already hard and straining against her shorts.

“Bend over,” she whispered.

My body obeyed before my mind caught up.

She didn’t undress me—she just tugged my shorts down to my thighs and used her fingers, slow and teasing, circling me until I gasped.

“You’re already soaked,” she murmured. “Always ready for me now, aren’t you?”

I nodded, biting my lip.

She didn’t ask for more.

She stepped behind me, gripped my hips, and pressed inside with one slow, steady push.

I cried out, hands gripping the edge of the bed. Her cock filled me instantly, stretching me open like she owned me—and she did.

She moved slow at first, letting me feel every inch, every pull and press. Her grip on my hips was tight, her breath hot against my neck.

“You’re so tiny now,” she groaned. “So tight. You feel like heaven.”

I moaned, arching back into her, needing more. She gave it to me.

Each thrust grew deeper, harder, until I was gasping, begging, unable to form full words. She took her time but never relented, her rhythm exact and overwhelming.

I came without even touching myself—trembling, crying out her name.

She wrapped her arms around my waist and held me while she came deep inside me, shuddering, murmuring filth into my ear.

When we collapsed onto the bed, she tucked me into her chest and stroked my back until I fell asleep again.

And as I drifted off, I realized something.

This was exactly where I wanted to be.

Dinner was quiet.

Rachel had made pasta, shirtless, her taller frame dominating the kitchen space. Every movement she made was confident, deliberate. I watched from a barstool, wearing one of her oversized hoodies that still somehow hung loose around my tiny body. My thighs were bare beneath it, legs swinging, cheeks warm.

She didn’t say much.

But her eyes never left me.

When we finished eating, she stood, took my hand, and led me to the bedroom without a word.

The light was soft. The air was warm. The room felt different—like it belonged to her now, not us. And when she turned, towering over me in the glow of the lamp, I didn’t question it.

She peeled the hoodie from my body slowly, eyes raking over every inch of me like she was unwrapping a gift. Her fingers traced along my collarbones, down my chest, across my hips.

“You get prettier every day,” she whispered.

Then she kissed me—hard.

She didn’t ease into anything tonight. She took control from the first moment, pressing me into the bed, her hands everywhere at once. My body responded instinctively—needy, open, **** for her.

She kissed down my neck, my chest, my thighs. She worshipped me first. Then she flipped me over.

“On your knees,” she said.

I obeyed.

She used her tongue again—slow, deep strokes over my hole, making me gasp, moan, clutch the sheets. When she pulled away, I whimpered from the loss.

But she was just getting started.

She climbed behind me, cock already hard and heavy, and pressed herself in with one slow thrust. I groaned, the stretch intense and perfect. Her grip on my hips was firm, anchoring me in place.

Then she began to move.

It wasn’t rushed. It was controlled. Deep. Measured.

She took her time, drawing out every sound, every gasp, every whimper from my lips. Her hands slid under my stomach, teasing my tiny cock, then moved back to spread me wider.

“You were made for this,” she growled. “For me.”

My moans turned to cries. She was everywhere at once—inside me, around me, over me. Her body surrounded mine, possessed it.

The hours melted away.

She changed positions whenever she wanted: flat on my back, curled in her lap, bent over her thigh. Every time she entered me, I felt smaller, more hers. Her dominance wasn’t just physical—it was total. And I loved every second of it.

When we finally collapsed together, slick with sweat and tangled in each other, she whispered one last thing in my ear.

“Tomorrow, you’ll wake up even more perfect.”

And I believed her.