It was supposed to be a week of reflection, of relaxation, and it's like you're already panting when it's barely Tuesday - like everything from the airplane to the swimsuits has been a blur of intense moments that leave one exhausted. Moments strange, moments hard to believe - yet, somehow, moments forgettable. No questions, no wonderment, no thoughts in the back of the head that scream of the absurdity of the situation. Like a dream that has gone by, shelved away, a faint remembrance that coaxes into wary looks in direction of the friend. She, the white dragoness. She has been going this way and that in a manner decidedly cheery. She has been talking about yesterday, about how it was a nice day, how she had so much fun, how it was the best day in as far as she could remember. She had told you she couldn't imagine why you could hardly remember it. But she had dismissed the suspicion much too early on and left you to your devices, humming to herself as she got out of bed, as she put on a bathrobe, as she ate breakfast, read a few pages of a book, went outside to stare at the ocean - she had found you exactly the way she'd left you and laughed at your state of being. She had told you to undress and come unwind with her since you looked so out of it. She had poured a steaming hot bath just for you. She had told you that today was going to be your day, that you would do everything you wanted and she would gladly follow up without a question. She felt you deserved it. She told you about all those hard times of the past year and even this flew over the head. What troubles? What hard times? What job? What trip? Where is this place? The Bahamas? She would laugh and remain mum. She would blame the lack of memory on stress. She tugs you inside the bathroom. Everything is white, vibrant, radiant. Everything is so present, so intense so now - it's like you are the only person who is not fully aware. She shows you the bath tub. Steaming. Empty. She giggles. She claims she had only warmed it up. She approaches, wearing just a small top that used to be a real shirt, you'd venture - she peels it off her wonderful bosom and kneels beside the tub, closing her eyes and crossing her arms underneath her chest. There, she coos. She lets out a sigh of relief when her nipples swell up, when she begins to pour milk first as drops, then trickles, then full-blown rivers. She raises the surface one, two, three inches - far more than she could have possibly contained. Despite the impossibility of her bosom, despite her being so far ahead in the alphabet, there should have been no way she could fill a luxury hotel's bath all to herself. Yet, as the tub overflows and she takes ginger steps in, she motions you to follow, to sit with her, to confess and confide with her while taking some sips of her milk. But what can you say? Admit your confusion, for starters. Admit that it's like you've forgotten everything up to a few minutes ago. Admit that it's so strange, so unusual, so unlike what life should have been - and somewhere along all that, she informs you it's only Monday, that we'd landed the evening before and gone straight to bed. All of a sudden, there is no more to say. It's a therapeutic experience that renders the skin silky smooth, the scales fine, the fur like velvet, exclusive parts of you and her made to feel like silk - the combination of all the richest, most precious fabrics in the world, united into two lovely, loving bodies that would beg for one another had the mind not been so lost in its haze. No soap, no shampoo, no sponge. Nothing. Only bare truths, questions, doubts that, after all, there was something off all along. Again, shelved. Too vague to be mentioned with credibility, mentioned again only to make her giggle with her musical laugh, soothing body and soul - there would you lose yourself in the cathedral of her eyes. She says she'll get out first. She says we've been spending two hours in simple silence, in the zen of the moment and that there is still a day for you to take advantage of. She says she'll wait for you at the beach. She gets out, her immense breasts heaving along with her. She gets out, her body following behind. She gets out, and out, and out. She squeaks when her nipples touch the cold tile floor, when they rub against the soft carpet of the bedroom, when they seek to press against the sliding doors leading to the beach - she leaves you behind to stare as she keeps getting out of the tub and is up to her twenty-sixth pair of arms and bosoms. It's like a giant one-up, a recall to those flashbacks and an attempt to bounce them, to raise them, to make reality stranger than dreams. She is well past Z-cup on her slender frame, so heavy-feeling and impossible yet taken with such a light weight, a much too spherical shape to be completely influenced by gravity, so endowed in her nipples alone that the average man would fail to compare. She's left you behind. Again. She's left you behind with the rest of her crazy body and you don't even have a head to complain to. To run out is to meet more of her. It's to brush against her body and feel her arms stopping you, hugging you, quivering like she's giggling again. A faint sound, quite and faraway - run, run, meet the sound, meet the lovely bells of her voice, the uppermost of her body, the way she waves in her ever cheery manner. She'd been waiting for you. She tells of you being such a slowpoke. She hopes you've had a good time in the tub. She touches you, surrounds you in a dozen, in two dozen hands, feeling how smooth your body has become under the tender care of her milk. Then, she complains that the bath was nowhere big enough for her to feel all the way relaxed. She stares to the ocean with a wistful look in her eyes, and she moves forward, dipping her body into the warm Caribbean waters. Her body stretches behind you, losing itself over the horizon - well over hundreds of right breasts just lightly touching the ocean's caress. And once more, she lets go. She loves the feeling. She collapses, waiting for it all to end, commenting on how she wishes you could feel what she feels right now. She describes at length, she retains her surprizing wits despite the rush of pleasure, despite the way she moans and giggles again, despite how she ought to be lost in her own feelings and yet swims well above it, deep and shallow all at once - just like her body. The ocean's blue lightens, becomes one with the sky, takes over and renders itself overcast with clouds of milk. Her body has curved into it, lost itself into it - just does does she say this should be good enough for her, for the time being. She wonders if you'd like to share this new bath tub with her. It's impossible to make her get your incomprehension. She surrounds you in her long neck and carries you with its near mile-long strength and she openly wonders why you don't seem to appreciate that new bath - after all, it's more soothing, more softness, more of that goodness in which you'd lost yourself before, right? So when she leaves you on the beach once more and tells you she'll take a dive, it's like she's really given up on your feeble mind. Time flies by, quickly and slowly, confusingly. At times, you catch a glimpse of her body, forming a magnificent arc when she dives up and down for a whole half-hour and you never see her legs or her tail. She grows bored, she interrupts her dive and calmly sinks under the surface once more. You would see her for brief moments, hugging herself, drawing from one of her own breasts, deep-throating her own nipples and sometimes two at once to help sate her thirst. The sun sets. The day is spent or wasted. The perspectives conflict. It's a bittersweet moment. You've really been alone, left to deal with your body, your mind, left to create and solve your own consequences, create and solve your own problems and worries, to become infected, to diagnose your own newfound mental problems. It would be eight o' clock, you'd venture. While waiting, you'd have taken a sip now and then. The milk would have been just right, fresh and without one trace of salt. It would have been a full meal readily available. And so she would come back, only to tell you poor news. In the glory of the day's end, as the sun becomes its deepest red and pulls the blanket of the pure ocean over itself, she tells you, simply, not to wait for her tonight and to just go have fun. She doesn't know when she'll be back. She retreats. Quickly. All you get to see is the torture of her body in the distant horizon doing its fancies with the waves. At times, her giggle reaches you. In the lonesome dinner, in this time-wasting stride among the hotel's gardens, she reminds you of how incredible she feels, how she wishes you had been there. But...! But wait a moment - and no more, no voice. She always misses your reply, your attempts to point out the anachronism of her mind's play. It is that way. She is a creature, a lovely creature, she's let you touch her and then she's vanished out of arm's reach. The hotel used to be full; it's empty. The music comes from nowhere. The attendants are like ghosts, ignoring and ignored. Two worlds. Two solitudes. The clash of reality against the dangers of imagination. You might get a glimpse of her now and then, lounging on the beach and casually leaking her milk into the ocean. As soon as you would approach, she would see something and dive back under the surface. Sometimes, you would wake up and feel warm scales against your back, only to feel them no more when you opened your eyes, only to see the back door open and letting in a cool breeze. Sometimes, you would eat out and unexpectedly receive a glass of milk on the house. Delicious. Perfect. Addictive. Sometimes, you would find your plane ticket, your return flight. Your Saturday of freedom - and next to it, the clock, showing a Monday at eight in the morning.