I had once had a memorable evening with my brother, during which he had had a few too many beers, blearily confessing that “The Attack of the 50-Foot Woman” was his favorite movie, and that he’d love to be held in the hands of such a woman, or even - to use his words - “explore” her. I had a dream the same night that I was being “explored” - in great and intimate detail - by a tiny man whose face closely resembled Matt’s. So sue me.
Matt was already shrinking as his foot hit the floor below the stairs, and his robe and pajama bottoms collapsed down upon his tiny body. An indignant, tiny, “Hey!” came from the pile, and before he poked his head out of the pile, I had straddled the pile, knowing that he’d be aroused once he looked up; while my panties were intact, they were rather tight and hid few physical details, and, from his vantage point, my boobs, at least from the bottom, would be fully visible, though my face would not be.
I wondered how he’d react, both at first and when he found out it was me. I very much hoped to give him the “exploration” opportunity he had hoped for.
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