Her fingers engulf you, the pads of her skin hot and slick with sunscreen. Before you can even process the motion, you’re ripped from the raft floor and hoisted skyward, your stomach lurching as the world falls away beneath you. The ride, the pool, the noise of the park—it all shrinks into a blur.
Her face fills your vision, impossibly vast and devastatingly gorgeous. Her eyes are deep brown oceans, framed by long lashes that seem to sweep like brushes when she blinks. She holds you delicately, pinched between thumb and forefinger, tilting you closer until her breath spills across your body in humid gusts.
“What the hell are you?” she murmurs, her voice a rumble that shakes your chest. The sound is too loud, too heavy—it vibrates inside your ribs.
Her gaze narrows as she inspects you. Slowly, her thumb presses against your chest, pinning you back against her forefinger. The pad of her skin is ridged and warm, and the sheer scale of it leaves you paralyzed. She strokes once, twice, testing the give of your body. You gasp, the pressure toeing the line between gentle and overwhelming.
“…weird,” she mutters. “You feel real. Softer than plastic. Warmer, too.”
You writhe in her grip, but your struggles only amuse her. Her lips twitch, curling into a half-smile. Then, with a shift of her fingers, she rolls you into her palm. You tumble helplessly across the expanse of her hand, landing sprawled on the faint lines of her skin. Her hand smells faintly of coconut sunscreen, and the heat of it seeps into you as she lifts it closer to her face.
She leans in, so close now that her lips fill your horizon. Pink, full, gleaming with a touch of moisture. The sheer size of them makes your heart hammer—they’re bigger than your whole body, and every slight shift makes them glisten.
Her breath spills over you again, warmer now, sweet with soda. She whispers, almost to herself: “God… you’re not a toy, are you? You’re… alive.”
The words hit you like thunder. Her pupils dilate, her expression sliding from curiosity into something more dangerous—fascination. She lowers her palm, pressing you closer to her mouth. Her lower lip pushes forward slightly, brushing against your legs with the lightest contact. The softness is overwhelming, the faint slickness leaving your skin damp.
You can’t help but shudder.
Her eyes widen at your reaction. A low laugh slips from her, husky and amused. “Ohhh… sensitive, are we?” she teases, brushing her lip against you again, slower this time, deliberate. The heat, the softness, the sheer scale of her touch—it’s dizzying.
“You’re like… a little living doll,” she murmurs, her voice dropping lower, intimate now, almost conspiratorial. “And I get to decide what to do with you.”
Her lips part slightly, a glimpse of her teeth catching the light as her breath envelops you once more. The way she looks at you now makes it very clear—she isn’t just curious anymore. She’s intrigued. Excited. And she knows exactly how powerless you are in her hand.
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