Elara stretched languidly across the vast expanse of her bed, the woven moss mattress yielding beneath her towering frame as the forest's evening symphony filtered through the open shutters of the hut. Crickets trilled in rhythmic pulses, their calls mingling with the distant hoot of an owl and the soft patter of leaves stirred by a gentle breeze, each sound sharpening her awareness until her skin prickled with heightened sensitivity. She shifted her hips, the soft fabric of her loosely draped robe whispering against her thighs, and let her fingers trail idly over the curve of her waist, savoring the quiet solitude that always preceded Thorne's arrival.

Her thoughts drifted to the years woven between them, the tentative first touches that had grown into a profound intimacy despite the chasm of their sizes. She recalled the night she had first confessed her secret, how her body had quivered under his exploratory fingers, and how he had returned with those slender tools—feathers bound to delicate handles, silken brushes carved from river reeds—that allowed him to traverse her vast form with precision and care. The memory alone sent a warm flush rising from her chest, her nipples tightening against the thin material as anticipation coiled low in her belly.

A faint ache bloomed between her legs, her pussy growing slick with the first stirrings of arousal, and Elara parted her thighs instinctively, the cool air of the hut kissing her heated skin. She closed her eyes, imagining the brush of Thorne's hands against her sensitive underarms or the teasing strokes along the soles of her feet that always left her gasping and arching, her body responding to him alone with a hunger that transcended their differences. The forest sounds seemed to pulse in time with her quickening breath, drawing her deeper into the waiting, every rustle outside heightening the electric promise of his touch.

Thorne emerged from the shadowed alcove near the hut's threshold, his heart pounding in time with the forest's nocturnal chorus as he clutched the elegant duster and soft bristle brush in his steady hands. The tools, carved from polished river reeds and tipped with the finest feathers and silken bristles, felt light yet potent against his palms, their surfaces still humming with the memory of past nights spent mapping Elara's vast, responsive body. He approached the bed's edge with deliberate steps, the moss floor yielding softly beneath his boots, and began his careful ascent along the smooth expanse of her thigh. Her skin radiated warmth like sun-baked earth after rain, the subtle scent of her arousal—musky and sweet—enveloping him as he climbed higher, his fingers brushing against the fine down of her leg hairs that stood on end with anticipation.

Reaching the crest of her thigh, Thorne settled into the familiar hollow just below the curve of her hip, where the fabric of her robe had parted to reveal the flushed, sensitive terrain. He laid out the duster and brush beside him, their handles aligned for quick access, and let his gaze travel upward over the monumental landscape of her form—the gentle rise and fall of her belly, the swell of breasts straining against thin cloth with each breath, the way her fingers twitched idly near her waist as if already craving his touch. Devotion surged through him like a river current, fierce and unyielding after years of learning her every sigh and quiver; she was his world, this giantess who trusted him with her pleasure despite the chasm between their sizes, and he would never tire of bridging it with patience and precision. A faint ache stirred in his own body, his cock hardening against his trousers as he watched her pussy glisten faintly in the dim light filtering through the shutters, slick and inviting, yet he held himself in check.

Tension coiled tighter in the air between them, his breath shallow as he poised the tools

Whispers Beneath the Canopy