I awoke in another daze, my brain in headache-throes like I’d had a concentrated dosage of sisterly anal scum injected straight into my skull. My body was slung over the couch as though I’d been tossed there like a ragdoll and forgotten once we arrived home from Mia’s afternoon terrorizing of the shopping mall, which was probably precisely what happened. Unfortunately, I wasn’t as completely forgotten by the amazonian volleyballer as I’d have liked, because when I came to, I saw her seated across from me and staring dead-ahead in smiley anticipation, with her iron-taut booty hemispheres crammed into an oversized armchair that was nonetheless shuddering under her athletic weight. Her thighs were spread wide, showing off the way her short-shorts and presumably underpants were wedged deeply into her crack, a wedgie of her own volition, with her pert lower quarters aimed roughly at where my face had come to lay.
“Good, you’re up from your big-boy nap. I was just starting to get bored again,” Mia said, stroking her fingers through her sleek black ponytail. Her other hand rested upon her mostly-exposed bronze thigh, subtly finger-tapping and setting off chain-reaction jiggles across the cellulite of her otherwise muscled quads and glutes. “I just don’t know why you get so tired during the day, Hal. Maybe you’re not getting enough sleep at night. It might be that you’re just a light sleeper. You know, like you’re distracted by lights and sounds? Because if that’s what’s happening, I’ve got a couple really good ideas to make sure you don’t hear or see a single thing until the sun comes back up. The kind of ways that’ll really stick and help turn you around.”
Just in case I didn’t get the hint, my sister’s palm massaged its way down her hip and nonchalantly clapped her short-stuffed ass cheek, and her message was made abundantly clear: if I took too many more fart knockout “naps” during the day, thus depriving Mia of precious time to keep humiliating me and piping her wind-passes into my throat, she’d simply make up for lost time by using my head as a pillow for her butt through the night, likely rolling over on top of me in her sleep until all my senses were relegated exclusively to the intense weight, sweaty darkness, and sphincter-clenching murmurs of future toots. Of course I had very little control over whether or not I fell victim to a brownout after unwillingly sucking down too much of my little sister’s gut-broiled infinite-taco gas, like in the food court, but I did know that I’d have to start trying harder, because at least now I was still allowed the “luxury” of movement and more than a one-inch distance between my nose and Mia’s overactive bunghole.
“Got it, shortstuff?” she asked with a sinister grin.
“Y-Yes,” I sighed.
“Awesome-sauce!” she cheered, snapping instantly back to her usual gratingly-joyous demeanor, then leapt up from the chair, looming dramatically over me as per usual. She smoothed out the stretched-tight spandex around her buoyant caboose, causing the whole perky complex to wobble straight in my direction, then expectantly curled her finger at me. “Well, c’mon on. Get up and follow me. Don’t start being a lazy-bones on me, Hal, or I might have to start testing some of those sleep aid techniques on you right now. I thought we could squeeze in a quick cooldown workout since Mom and Dad left to pick up my dinner from that Mexican place down the road. And it’s a good thing too, because those tacos did NOT keep me very full for long. You might almost say they shot straight through me, actually…”
That was an understatement. Shooting straight through Mia was what pretty much every chunky grease-coated piece of foodstuff did once my ravenous sister piled it into her gullet, though, and I knew the sick reality of that better than anyone else including the tan-and-toned giantess herself, considering I usually was left to scrub out the grisly crime scene that was her oversized toilet the evening after a hefty meal, the porcelain seat often still tepid from her derriere. Such a gruesome outcome was likely what our family was headed for now, because I’d seen the way Mia could scarf down fried grub from that Mexican place, and guessed that it took both Mom and Dad to pick up her order because they needed two cars just to transport it all. After the experience in the mall today, part of me hoped that six full plates of beef-and-jalapeno-jammed tacos might take the edge off some of my sister’s dinner appetite, but I should’ve known better.
I crawled up from the couch and scampered after, as Mia took lumbering steps down the hall toward the room she’d claimed as her at-home gym. Somehow this was the cleanest air I’d breathed for most of the day, despite the house’s olfactory identity having been irrevocably transformed into a museum containing every possible noisome ass-burped flavor and differing nationality of digested cuisine melded into all the furniture, carpets, and walls. No matter what room you entered in this place, it was like being smothered by the wispy after-effects of any given meal from throughout my sister’s life, post-growth spurt. Sometimes in my nightmares, or in the waking nightmare of my life itself, I even felt like our home had become like a massive representation of Mia’s GI system: like her hunger had grown too large and she’d swallowed us all down, forcing my parents and I to pathetically inhabit different pockets of her superhuman stomach by going room-to-room, soaking up the acidic lard-swollen odors and just waiting for our own bodies to disintegrate among the malicious fluids and then finally be spat back out her moist asshole in gaseous form.
In the “exercise” room (even though Mia was prone to exercising any and all of her physique, especially those constituting her malleable posterior, in every part of the house), I humbly waited while my sister gathered up weights for a quick pre-supper pump. Even if mercifully shorter than her previous fitness regimes today, this act was sure to loosen up her internal pathways just in time to make a large family’s worth of supersized Mexican food pour through her as spicy heinous sludge before evacuating from her backside orifice as enough flatulence to fully inflate and then explode a blimp. At least I’d had some practice in this athlete’s assistant role today already, and thus believed I might be able to soldier through the inevitable fecal horn-blasted stench-spiral that resulted when Mia began squatting and thrusting her warrior-queen figure every which way.
But out of all her talents, my sister is consistently best at ruining even my meager hopes, and I discovered that my duties at the gym earlier would in no way prepare me for the way my body was required for service this time. Without a word, and only a knowing wink, Mia tossed aside her traditional weights and instead grabbed me by the legs, flung me over her shoulder like a knapsack so my body hung down her back, then with my ankles hoisted up and my face descended toward that notorious shorts-pinched buttock hill-flanked crack of hers, the gigantic champion proceeded to secure my legs with cinched rope that she looped around her wrists, thus treating me like an upside-down weightlifting backpack. That, I assume, was her logic line, though this time my sister was kind enough not to insult my intelligence by claiming so, because we both knew all too well that the only reason she’d done this was so my head would be pressed straight up against her flexing rectal valley while she worked up a fresh sweat and even-fresher toots.
From there, Mia began performing lunges around the room, sticking out her mighty leg and bending so far to the floor that I could see one ass cheek at a time swelling plumper through the spandex right before my face bounced off it. Immediately I began to miss being allowed to rest upright on the floor while she used my dwarfed body as a metric for squat depth. Now, I couldn’t just sit still and passively await the rippling fart storm, since both our bodies had to suffer the intensity of her workout. However, I really did get the worse end of the deal here, literally, with the blood rushing toward my head, my torso helping sop up her perspiration, and my face constantly mashing and then rebounding off the rounded malodorous “end” of her titanic form.
Her lunging range of motion also visibly widened the gap betwixt her lunar tush halves as a byproduct of her legs spreading to such an extreme, and with each dizzying up-and-down repetition that alternately hardened the pillowy sides of her rump before my head was slammed back into it, I could hear the guttural fizz coming down from her stomach and loading into the chamber just behind her puckered opening. Any second now, everything under this roof would be suffused with the kind of lung-puncturing anus fog that could probably put pesticide fumigation companies out of business with its superior capacity to smoke out and subdue smaller vermin, which in Mia’s case, was pretty much every living thing shorter than nine feet tall. And of course my quivering lips and teary eyes would be the first to receive her latest intestinally-marinated craft tonight. Though far from ready, I braced for impact.
Mia’s farts began relatively conservatively, compared to her usual barely-controlled windstorms of utter gastric chaos. The bursts of fanny air instead squirted out in distinct rhythm with each lunge, again utilizing my head as a rag to catch it all. Granted, this was still a potent enough session of colon-fuming that sweat soon glazed my face and my nostrils were prickled with the smelly pangs of such an up-close-and-personal sampling, the withered puffs helped along due to my sister’s wide-stance lunges spreading her cheeks with the same effectiveness as though she’d squeezed her fingers between dual wedges of damp booty flesh and pried them apart by hand. Still, the degrading-yet-livable experience was so much less hectic than her earlier efforts, I almost had to deliriously laugh, the deadly suspense mounting for the real fireworks show. There was no way she’d emptied all that grungy taco effluvium out at the mall, after all, and I felt like prey she’d hung up, inverted and helpless, to entreat the predator of her never-ending gas to hunt and consume.
But that moment didn’t arrive, even after a half hour of exercises specifically designed to put my face in grossly intimate proximity with her wide-open cheeks and gurgling fart-spigot, just barely concealed under sweat-soggy black shorts. Was she somehow starved? Constipated? Had Mia decided to give me a break, seeing how I’d already been poisoned by so many of her streaming poots today?
Then, right as I heard Mom and Dad bustling around in the other room, having faithfully returned to set the table for Mia’s daily feast, I realized that she wasn’t going easy on me, nor even empty of beef-lubed bowel stank. She was just saving it up, to combine with the upcoming south-of-the-border spread to create a chimera of blossoming ass-spurted stink that would put every dumpy Mexican food joint bathroom in America to shame. And that generated enough gut-turning fear in me to make up for the muted sputters from her business end. Truly, only a girl of Mia’s size and influence, not to mention sizzling internal activity, could manage to corrode my insides with only the intangible promise of her climactic farts almost as well as she could with the actual, all-too-real feculent gale of thick, slimy, asshole-simmered exhaust that was soon to infect us all. When the dinner bell was reluctantly rung, my sister stalked toward the kitchen, with the trophy of my body still limply adorning her bountiful bass.
Giantess World
