.The Fleas

 I stepped up to the table and covered it with a red silk kimono.  Little hills and valleys formed here and there, but I stretched it out next to the edge where I stood.

Then I pulled a match box from the pocket of my robe and carefully set it down.  A door opened and hundreds of tiny women ran out.  They lined up in ranks and I looked at them through a magnifying lens.

Row after row of beautiful, ant-sized women, wearing construction hard-hats and bikinis.  Some were a little flatter than I'd ordered.  I brushed those to the side.  We'll call that the emergency reserve. 

I found one guy.  One sneaky male in costume.  I pinched him between two fingertips and tossed him back in the box.

"I'd rather you didn't have enough women than sneak in guys!" I said sternly.  They apologized.

After inspection, I gestured and they closed ranks.  I pulled a spoon out of my pocket and scooped up an eighth teaspoon of women to pour into my ears.

They all started to shout dirty things as me.  I heard their screams as gentle whispers.

Then I pulled the ropes and collars out and laid them on the silk.

Another spoonful of women was picked up and poured onto the top of my cock.  It was resting on the table, which was at just the right height.

Women on either side threw lines up to the women on top.  They used those to haul bigger lines into place, then helped work the big collars around me.

I stood and watched, not helping, not hurting.

The hundreds worked together to position the collars and stretch out the lines.

Twenty women climbed up the ridge and onto my purple knob.  They jumped up and down in unison, shouting a count to the women below.

Those formed tug-of-war teams and started to pull my collars.  Out, away from the body, then in, back towards it.  Out and in, out and in. 

Tiny feet working me, a few scratching or biting the skin along the back.  I think I saw a few sledgehammers pounding on my more sensitive spots.

The count got screwed up and the team in the middle was out of synch.  I growled a warning.  They didn't fix it.  I slammed the table and everyone fell.  A few women fell off of me.

The women in my ears just screamed.

"Let's try this again, and be careful this time!" I warned them.

They started all over again.  And pumped and pushed, pulled and stroked.  Jumped and told me they were playing with themselves in my ears.

I started to rub myself back and forth over the cloth.  An ill-timed twitch knocked one line of women down.  The others kept up the stroking, but ten of them were sprawled flat when my cock's tip rushed over them.

I felt the tiny little bumps, the struggling bumps.  I knew if I leaned forward just a teeny bit, I could crush them.

But before I could decide to do so, I came.  I gushed, spattering over the forward teams.

They broke ranks, wading desperately through the come to try to get where they could breathe.

The second team, the in-pullers of the first collar, they rushed forward to pull, pull, pull.  The other teams followed suit, pulling me out, dragging the last drops of come out of me.

It oozed down and flowed out, a slow flow of hot fluid, like villagers disappearing under creamy white lava.  A few of the women on top tumbled down, splashing in the pool of come.  Wiggling sperm tickled them as they fought to gain their footing.

The speakers shifted to congratulations, thanks, compliments on my manliness.  I relaxed and slipped the collars off.

"Aaaaah," I moaned as I woke up.  I lay there for a bit, ashamed of my dream, of my hard-on, of having to face the Keepers again tomorrow, knowing what my subconscious found amusing.

I didn't get back to sleep that night.