You lay atop your bed, your blanket halfway wrapped around your legs as you tossed and turned in your sleep, groaning and moaning to yourself as the dream, or rather the nightmare, continued on its course. It was not an unfamiliar sequence of events transpiring from the depths of your subconscious mind. In point of fact, it was one that had been occurring with increasing frequency ever since you discovered that you had a rather... specific... kind of preference. At the time, you knew it by simpler names and hadn't really given it much thought. After all, you were a young teenaged boy, surely it was just one of many passing fancies flitting about in your head.
But it didn't disappear. If anything, it grew, which in itself was rather ironic considering your fetish.
Macrophilia. Defined as a fascination with or a sexual fantasy involving giants, more commonly expressed as giantesses. It is typically a male fantasy, with the male playing the "smaller" part—entering, being dominated, or being eaten by the larger woman.
Admittedly, when the dreams started, the role that you played in them was that of an observer, that no matter where you were, who you were with, or what you had been doing, the dream would constantly be interrupted by a sudden shift in your female companion.
Chloe, the young ten-year old cousin of yours that you were frequently stuck babysitting. The girl had gained an appetite for food that bordered on the ridiculous given that most of your time spent with her, both in reality and in the dreams, was trying to stop her from eating herself out of house and home. If she were a few years older, you'd suspect that your younger cousin had a thing for stuffing herself and the dreams certainly didn't alleviate the notion as many of them would end with her having finished off her house's foundations before moving on towards "desert," namely you. Most nightmares with her ended with you screaming your head off as you plummeted down into her gaping mouth.
Katarina, your sister who was only a year older than yourself. Time spent with her was time spent trying, and failing, to not have your eyes drawn towards the generous swell of her chest. She joked that it was because she drank her milk that she had become so gifted, and how could you argue against it when you'd constantly find her guzzling directly from the carton or even an entire gallon? Every swallow seeming to inflate her chest before the rest of her body followed suit. Nightmares with her often resulted in being swept away in a tide of white as her milky consumption resulted in milky expulsion.
Then there was the most damning of nightmares. Those that featured your mother. Much as you might find yourself awake with a cold sweat and a stiffened rod from the previous two, dreams, and yes even nightmares, that featured your mother often resulted in you needing either a change of underwear... or an aspirin as many a morning would find you colliding against the floor of your room as you'd all but fling yourself off your bed. The scenarios with her, you could barely remember, and what snippets you could had you struggling to hide the reaction it wrought.
In the end, you'd brush those dreams aside, thinking them as little more than the raging hormones that was puberty playing with your head. Why would you ever suspect that your dreams were about to become a reality that very morning? Especially not when another night's sleep was interrupted by you taking a nose-dive onto the floor of your room, half of you still laying on the bed.
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