Giantess World
“Okay, that’s enough. You can stop now. Why don’t you take a load off and sit by me again? That’s definitely what I’m doing tonight!” Mia said, as if the bottle wasn’t empty already. She gigglingly swatted the container from my hands, snatched me by the shirt, and slammed me spine-first back into my chair, so my head was still in an all-too-intimate realm with her half-cocked bubble-butt, one tight-muscled feminine ass cheek relaxed on the seat like a squashy pumpkin and the other roomy sphere impressively angled up without the slightest wobble in her posture, even as most of her upper body was engaged in competitively downing as much cilantro-and-chili fart-fuel as she could cram across her tongue.
Having glimpsed the state of the kitchen table just before getting supplexed back into the chair with my mouth in easy gulping distance of Mia’s ripe roiling poot-stream, I should’ve been comforted by the fact that most of her endless dinner was already gone, with plates scraped down to the last crumb and their gristled proteiny contents packed into my giant sister’s athletically-efficient guts for, as she’d put it, taking a “load” off later. I should’ve been comforted by that sight, but of course I wasn’t, knowing the worst was still yet to come.
In what was truly a blessing from above, though, I’d now imbibed so much of her focused intestinal stink in so brief a time window, since I doubted Mia had been eating for longer than fifteen minutes, that my body was on the brink of another temporary shutdown, and then I could be “free,” if only briefly, in some comatose dream. Though, knowing my bad luck, I’d only spend that precious time in nocturnal solitude by envisioning a nightmare somehow worse than reality, maybe where Mia’s ample gas transformed into sentient beings like hideous green-and-brown ghosts that chased me around the house with long anally-redolent tendrils and then licked me up and down using tongues made of acid, spoiled milk, half-decayed beef, and whatever else my sister had floating in her belly now. Or perhaps my subconscious would be less creative and just force me to imagine what the view might be like from the plus-size toilet bowl tonight when the raven-haired giantess stomped off to her private bathroom, ripped down her thong, and spread her cheeks wide across the throne to give her anus a clear shot.
As my vision darkened, my nose became like a disembodied appendage, and even my sense of touch dulled, I genuinely couldn’t say for certain whether Mia had finally gotten tired of keeping her sweaty buttock raised off the seat and just slapped its pungent bulk down on my cranium with the force of a mineshaft collapse, or if it was just the sheer tangible influence of her cheesy rectal fumes popping like weather balloons and congealing in midair so stickily that the balminess itself was weighing my head down even more fervently than her nine-foot body. Either outcome was entirely possible. The only thing I knew for sure was that I reached my limit sometime before the girl had even swallowed her last chimichanga. Human beings simply weren’t built to make it through a meal like this, in the presence of a force of nature like Mia, while still conscious. With my head wedged under her panty-eating ass-crack, sputtering and involuntarily weeping and experiencing the hot-blooded Chinese water torture of her butthole perspiration plunking down my face, the explosive parade of sisterly GI-funk flatulence at last rendered me just as limp as our blacked-out parents.
I awoke from my umpteenth “nap” today alone after sordid easily-interpreted dreams spent eating bowl after bowl of liquefied chocolate ice cream which tasted of radioactive toxic waste and burned a hole directly through my belly like a cannonball. In reality, I was drooling face-down on the kitchen tile and strung-out within an inch of my life. Usually when coming to again after one of Mia’s ongoing stinkers renders a knockout punch to my throat, I can look forward to slightly-more livable conditions, once her smog has had the chance to disperse through the house and neighborhood at large. It’s always still there to a degree, of course, an absolute scourge of bowel-putrefied zest belonging to every gutty twisted variety of cuisine from the global food pyramid, with Mexican dishes perhaps delivering the spiciest aftermath of them all, but at least it usually thins over time, diluting the fiery keister-spouted density using a few precious wisps of clean oxygen.
That made it all the more disturbing then when I took one whiff of the parchingly humid alien-planet atmosphere and immediately coughed up my complete stomach contents. Mia’s immortal beast of a fart was still here, stronger than ever, its mostly-invisible amorphousness sagging down on every solid object under this roof and pinning me down just as effectively as the giantess’s actual rock-hard glutes. It almost seemed impossible that it had grown from the strength of the initial burst, before I recalled that this was the nine-foot wunderkind of proctologically-inexplicable malodor I was dealing with, and to limit my expectations for her to even the superhuman was to only set myself up for disappointment.
If it felt like I had my sobbing lips nuzzled within inches of my sister’s anus beforehand for a cheek-clapping French kiss, and indeed I practically did, then it now seemed my whole body was sucked inside the tube and floating in the scummy limbo of her backdoor tank. The air had thickened to the point of becoming a gaseous near-fluid, where her misted anal sweat took gluey form on my skin again, and hallucinations tormented me of dark bubbles rising and reality itself bending in wave-patterns like stink lines from a fly-ridden animal dung heap the height of a mansion.
My parents were nowhere to be seen, and neither was Mia. Again, this should’ve made a difference in the depth of asshole flavors I was necessarily gulping down to stay awake while probably shortening my lifespan in the process, but the stench had achieved such cosmic proportions of inhumanity, it was truly worse than anything I’d smelled or physically felt leaked out of my sister, or ever in my life: like a chili sauce binge fed through every human orifice, a septic tank explosion containing a whole city’s worth of digested donations, a summertime burrito fiesta spread left outdoors for a week, and a catheter inserted up the giantess’s stink-frothing blowhole to vacuum out its packed-in essence.
There was no doubt in my mind that as execrable as my experience was during the dinner, I’d have been happier to go back to those comparatively-tamer moments before my wipeout, while Mia was still crafting this abhorrent creature of rheumy dankness out of her own bloated atomic-bomb toots that now ruthlessly slithered through every available molecule of open space in the house and the internal systems of her much-meeker family members, then hardened slowly into a sweat-and-excretion gel that coated our skin and probably blackened our organs.
Finding reserve energy from God-knew-where, I dragged myself an inch at a time along the floor toward the living room, if only to escape the gassy Chernobyl site of the kitchen, feeling as though I’d been bathed in an adhesive slime that further slowed my progress and made it impossible to get a grip on any surface. This status wasn’t even fully imagined, since the wind-passes mercilessly pumped out of Mia’s intra-buttock fart-faucet with the intensity of solar flares had become like a self-sustaining organism now: some science-defying hybrid of gas and solid at once, untouchable yet more forceful than a wrecking ball, wretchedly inflated with notes of ghost peppers, caustic perspiration-sluiced sphincter flesh, and the furthest reaches of large-intestine droppings. It trapped and preserved all of us, the lesser beings who had become nothing less than the familial slaves to Mia’s stink, like dying mosquitoes in amber.
After spending fifteen minutes crawling three rooms away, only to discover the acerbic ferment juices from my sister’s booty had evenly infected all parts of the house, I was just beginning to wonder what had become of the others, when I received my answer in the form of a loud porcelain clack, followed by the thudding whomp of a certain athletically-toned bikini-clad cake the size of a car airbag descending onto its frequent resting place. I knew those sounds well, the prelude to the finale that a whole day of monstrous farts had heralded, which meant my insides knowingly corkscrewed before the real show even began. There came a focused grunt, followed by a more-relaxed hum as my sister savored the process of what was sure to continue shattering her previous records of foulness.
Per usual, the thankfully-distant chorus of Mia’s end-of-the-day routine consisted of weighted plunks like golf balls dropping through a pond, the cascade of smaller artifacts before a dangerous rockslide, followed by more concussive splashes, and then the leaden fall like broken temple pillars bashing and splitting into a kaleidoscopic miasma of chunky particles against the slanted basin. Once it had begun, much like the flatulence that came before, the plunking cacophony of her trip to the commode didn’t want to end. The sticky aura inside the house was already at such a newfound peak of asshole-pinched villainy, I might’ve been made temporarily immune and barely noticed the shift following this latest contribution my titaness of a sibling made into her specialized bathroom throne.
But when had I ever been that lucky before?
This was the real deal. None of my prior experiences with Mia, ugly and life-threatening as they already were, could help me process the beastly filth-cloud infecting the space now as she created new room in her stomach for the next scarfed-down payload. Strangely, I no longer felt like I was only sensing the inhospitably beefy essence of my sibling’s colon through my nostrils and throat. As the aroma clung onto my skin as a gassy perspired film and then seeped into my very pores, I began to feel like I was experiencing her babbly wind-breaks in the same way I’d experience the voltage of a taser straight to my groin, from head to toe, in an ongoing loop of flesh-singeing torment.
It was as though a cleansing fire had swept through my sister’s bowels, scraping out the decayed historical landmarks of her every past meal that hadn’t quite been acid-boiled enough to escape her rectum as rushing stink-steam yet, or worse. Even though I was already lying supine at the foot of the stairs, too weak to pull myself up, I could no longer even keep my head aloft as the air itself seemed to rupture into popping fizzily fart reactions. This caused me to face-plant so hard and instantaneously against the floor that Mia may as well have come leaping down the stairs, using my skull as a landing pad for her randy cheeks again, and in fact I might’ve welcomed that outcome, since the inevitable cranium-breakage from those weighty glutes falling would give me the much-needed rest of a coma, and plus, it would mean the nine-foot-tall clean plate ranger was finished on the toilet.
But she wasn’t, as Mia tended to take her time with this particular activity, not to mention the fact that anyone who ate as much as her in a single day would require a long period to offload the results. This meant that, as cloying and rollicking-hot and gruesomely spiced as the ultra-noxious atmosphere of the home had become after that marathon of greasy meat-plump Mexican food, today more than ever, that until my sister finished dropping the kids off at the pool, what I was smelling now still couldn’t compare with the finale. We hadn’t yet reached the peak of her powers. Like the eventual heat death of the known universe, it was a grimly predictable fact of life that Mia’s gas become exponentially worse while she was not only plying our lungs with humid aerosol-state toots, but dingily spewing that hateful chili-sauce smog as a byproduct of the “real” thing: her farts like demonic heralds announcing the arrival of the true devil which ruled our smelly lives in this sweaty achy reviling hellhole of a home.