Giantess World
Mia stopped to admire her supper spread when we arrived, though I couldn’t get a good look, as I remained slung over her back with my field of view limited entirely to her stretched-out spandex encrusted with the incense of humid air biscuits over her jiggly glute hillocks. When she did heave me into the chair beside her plus-size throne, however, I found myself an unwilling guest in my own home at what was sure to be the worst dinner party in human history. Our parents were seated in the corner with their backs to the wall and smiles plastered on, while they too were beginning to pre-emptively shiver with the same anticipatory sickness as me, even as the house was only mildly raunched-up at the moment with my sister’s anal seepage: the calm before the storm.
Unfortunately, even our resident giantess’s “serene” periods of relative gastrointestinal dormancy would be enough, in any other family’s household, to make her lowly kin fling open the windows, douse the rooms in gallons of floral air freshener, and crowd one another to take a turn hurling into the sinks while the acrid BM-essence clogged their throats like bad plumbing. For us, though, this period prior to a new meal was a welcome rest when we were treated to occasional wisps of neutral scents and untainted oxygen amidst a sea of roiling gas, but nevertheless a time that would end entirely too soon. The table was packed corner-to-corner with doubles of practically everything on the restaurant’s menu: cheap, processed, and twentyfold enough to give even a normal-height human a bad night on the can, which meant for a towering figure of my sister’s supernal fart-ripening talents, it was a treasure trove of diseased future buttcrack fog.
Mia apparently didn’t get enough tacos into her system earlier today, since a whole platter was waiting for her here, but there were also burritos, enchiladas, and nachos, plus heaps of beans and rice, everything steaming and glistening with a sheen of grease, dribbling hot sauce, and coated in cheese. Though it was all fresh and perfectly edible, the mushy textures, the damp shine, and the half-liquid state of every lumpy item made it impossible for me not to picture how it would all turn out when Mia was finished with it. This evidently had become my curse, along with never having an appetite myself thanks to the constant spectral presence of the brunette god-queen’s living fart cloud souring my senses: anytime I looked at food, I saw and smelled only a mirage of unholy, acid-basted, brownish monochrome refuse after its future passage through my sibling’s foul systems.
She truly had ruined me. As a result, I couldn’t help but gag and turn my eyes from the first glance at this fiesta’s worth of dairy-and-protein toot ammo. No matter how much I reminded myself that the food was in fact colorful, with a tasty aroma and an appearance that could’ve made for a photogenic commercial, my warped brain refused to believe anything except that Mia had suffered a bad case of the runs right on top of the dinner table.
“Wow, you guys got everything this time! Thaaaanks, Mom and Dad! Oh, and scoot up here with us! I don’t want you to feel left out,” she cheered, while our parents reticently approached at her command. Mia swung her pendulous megaton ass cheeks over the chair with full intention of slamming them down with enough momentum to rival her own gas jet-streams, but then stopped herself, tugging at the neckline of her top and short-short waistband. “By the way, I hope you guys don’t mind if I dress a little comfier for dinner. I’ve just been getting so hot all day, what with all the workouts, plus that spice really goes to my blood. And I mean, we’re all family, so there’s no reason to be embarrassed. I never am, after all! Aw, thanks for understanding.”
After presuming everyone’s agreement with her whims, as was Mia’s way, my sister proceeded to pull her shirt up and over her head, before flinging the sweat-collected thing into the sink, then shimmied her shorts down her ultra-sculpted quads and calves, kicking the equally-dewy garment clear across the table and forcing Mom and Dad to serve their heads to the side to avoid getting their heads caught in the salty fibers of their ginormous daughter’s booty shorts like a burlap sack just before a mob hit.
Suddenly my sister was reduced to her dark-navy bra and panties set, her enormous frame a dusky-tanned golden idol for us all to admire and fear, though decidedly more in favor of the latter. I recognized the undergarments from this morning when I’d slunk into her bedroom, recalling how disproportionately large they appeared in my comparatively-boyish hands, yet while they were hugged skin-tight to Mia’s assets above and below, they appeared tailor-made for her nine-foot body, complimentary and eye-popping. With that winsome smile and killer physique that somehow didn’t impede the flaunting of her buxom rack and especially that supple twin set of volleyball-swollen hindquarters, I can objectively admit that my demigoddess-sized sister wouldn’t have looked out of place posing on the swimsuit issue of a publication covering superheroic athletes.
But that wasn’t Mia’s ambition in life. Her beauty, her strength, and even her ever-heightening stature were just incidental bonuses to her true passion for tyrannically smoking us out with her thunderclap meat-enriched rectal blurts. That was where it began and ended for her. And tonight, when she settled down to begin the Mexican-scarfing fest, I couldn’t help but send up my usual prayer to an uncaring higher power that if my parents and I did actually meet our own “ends” tonight as a result specifically of my sibling’s backend antics, that it was at least quick.
I hung my head, as did Mom and Dad, since it was too unsettling to watch Mia actually gobbling everything down almost-whole with the efficiency of Ms. Pac-Man, knowing where it would lead. Even with our gazes averted, we still had to listen, however, to my sister’s every overdramatic “mmmm,” the sated gurgles of her bubbling gut, and the teeth-gnashing beef-pulping carnage that began on her tongue, but with each hard gulp sent down another grenade of gunky lard-and-chipotle oils into her belly fluid-bath in preparation to violently fume out the other side, I knew it was only a matter of time until a new “voice” joined the glottal choir.
I should’ve been ready for the start of it. With all my experience around my growth-spurting sibling, her talkative stomach, and gratuitous sulfur-billowing asshole, it seemed like I might’ve had a chance of being physically, mentally, and emotionally prepared for the worst case scenario to be left far in the dust. But I wasn’t. Not even close. Indeed, if Mia’s nightly carpet-bombing of fart nukes was in fact an Independence Day fireworks spectacular, she began this cursed day’s hellishly putrescent event with the finale of the show, the coup de grace of an anus-mounted rocket that quickly split into dozens of smaller puffs packing enough fiery moisture-spitting energy to light up the sky in neon stink-line green, and then she only went bigger from there.
There was no real prelude to the vaporous madness tonight, no warning shot made of unfurling eye-clouding sphincter pollution, no silent snaking torrents that smelled of amber and latrines, no blabby rapidfire armpit-squeaky bloops to kick things off in even moderate fashion. Mia didn’t want to keep us waiting this time, and the only hint I had to anticipate the stampede of blood-curdling parps was the slightest smile on her lips. She didn’t turn her head nor even pause while cramming Mexican treats into her stuffed cheeks to announce the commencement of a new frontier in her stenching talents. The first gushing rip-roarer from my sister’s ass began in a contra-bass yowl like a lion’s roar, distorted while echoing through the no-doubt mushy tunnel of her digestive tract’s home stretch, popping our ears and accompanying the call of nature with an explosive nostril-melting haze that immediately engulfed the kitchen thrice over.
With the giantess’s clothes stripped away except for that all-too-thin silken layer of cloth semi-pinched in her planetary crack line, we didn’t even have the benefit of her shorts as a first line of defense to soak up the initial carnivorous onslaught. Just to pour salt in the wound, too, Mia raised one bulbous glute a few inches off the chair in my direction, and as the bone-clattering growl of her opening fart-burst extended into its tenth second of continuously streaming warm gooey anal-mist, the sound turned higher-pitched, and I actually felt the jungle-humidity wind blowing back my hair like an air cannon: not with my face poised an inch from her immortal hole, as she so often found reasons to enforce, but from a “safe” distance of a couple feet, though I should’ve learned by now that the only secure location relative to my fairy-shooting sister would’ve been the opposite side of the globe.