Staring up at the huge, buck-toothed genius, Max felt an overwhelming sensation of inevitability creeping over him. Over the last week, he'd seen Hazel solving advanced quantum mechanics problems with all the ease and nonchalance of a todder playing a smartphone game. Her email inbox had a special spam folder specifically to filter out rival universities seeking to woo her into research programs, and another for unsolicited job offers from Fortune 500 companies. While she was easily one of the foulest people he'd ever met, she was also far and away the smartest—and if she didn't think there was any way out of his current condition, he had his doubts that he'd get a better answer anywhere else. With that in mind, if he really was stuck like this forever — or at the very least, for another several months — he might as well try to enjoy it.

"Alright," he said, finally, taking a deep breath to steady his nerves. "Fine. Let's do it."

Hazel grinned wider than ever. "I always knew I liked you, miniguy."

*

One year later...
 
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As a fresh gust of gas roused Max from another night of restless sleep, he eagerly pressed his face against his mistress's perpetually-unwashed asshole to savor as much as he could. While she usually kept him supplied with a steady stream of methane-infused air, she'd been conspicuously un-gassy since last night—and in the absence of his usual dosage, he was already getting anxious and shaky. This dependency was just one of the many indignities she had forced onto him over the last twelve months, originally presented as a way of making him more comfortable. In retrospect, nothing could have been further from the truth.

Allowing her foul fumes to fill his lungs, he was rewarded with a familiar full-body feeling of euphoria and arousal. It only lasted a few fleeting seconds due to his now-substantial tolerance, but after an excruciating several hours without a whiff of Hazel's farts, it was just the trick to calm his nerves. Most of his days were built around chasing this feeling, and it pervaded the few dreams he still had at night. 
 
"Mmm..." Yawning, the 20-year-old gooner rolled over and stretched. "Morning, miniguy."
 
Between her cheeks, face still flush against her huge, wrinkled hole, Max gritted his teeth. After all this time, Hazel had still never bothered to learn his name. It was like she saw him as nothing more than a living toy; something that existed solely for her pleasure... and after all the "upgrades" she'd given him since then, he was increasingly starting to feel the same way. 
 
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Opening his mouth as another fart blasted out of the giant nerd's plump rump, Max redoubled his efforts to absorb as much as he could. Hopefully, he thought, whatever she ate today would give him more to work with. He still couldn't believe she'd made him start thinking like this.
 
"Hehe, someone's eager." Hazel grinned. Of course, she knew that eagerness had nothing to do with the way Max felt about her various emissions. Thanks to all the supplementary serums she'd cooked up to ease him into life in her ass, it was more like an all-consuming obsession. But that didn't stop her from taking every opportunity to playfully tease him about it.

"Thinking I might order a couple of breakfast burritos," she said, clenching her cheeks around her three-inch-tall assistant. "Extra cheese, extra eggs, extra beans, lots of hot sauce. How's that sound to you?"
 
Beneath her, overcome by the unconscious forces his mistress had unleashed upon him, Max began covering her asshole with kisses. "T-thank you, mistress!" As much as it pained him to admit it, he meant this with total sincerity. "Y-you're the best!"
 
"And don't you forget it," laughed Hazel, grabbing her phone and tapping in an order. "Perfect, that'll be here in an hour. Juuust enough time to sneak in a quick sesh."
 
As she rolled out of bed and shuffled over to her desktop, Max was jostled further awake by the lumbering pressure of her cheeks wobbling back and forth around his shrunken form. While she still occasionally busted out her 3D printed plug from time to time, she'd come to prefer keeping him in her ass without any extra gadgetry—especially since she'd gotten him to start staying in there of his own volition. For twelve excruciating months, this had been Max's life. 

By now, he was a distant memory to everyone else at Ventus. Zeke had gotten a new roommate, his family had given up looking for him, and once Daisy graduated in the spring, there'd be no one else on campus who knew he was still alive. Just him and Hazel, forever—a deal that was, by any reasonable metric, significantly better for her than him.
 
"Alright, miniguy," said the buck-toothed gooner, settling into her chair, "what do you think... is this a scat morning, or a cockvore morning?"
 
Still plastered between his mistress's cheeks, Max sighed. "I guess... c-cockvore?"
 
"Still not a scat guy, huh?" Hazel made a little 'tsk-tsk' sound. "We really gotta work on that..."
 
Well aware of what this could mean, Max shuddered. Already, his mistress had gotten him addicted to her gas. Another more recent serum had "optimized" his digestive system to get all the daily nutrients he needed from her sweat. A third "conditioning update" triggered uncontrollable arousal whenever she allowed him near her vagina. At this point, there were only a few more conceivable ways she could heighten her pheromonal dominance over his mind—and while he hoped she'd leave those final depraved doors unopened, he had a feeling it was only a matter of time.

At moments like this, pressed up against his mistress's asshole with a headful of her fumes, there was no denying the reality of his current situation. Of all the girls he could have ended up with during his first semester of college, he'd managed to draw the attention of his school's smartest, horniest, most perverted female student—and now, he was reaping what he'd sowed. Hazel had won, he was hers, and there was nothing he could do about it. No matter how many times he tried to go on strike or escape, sooner or later, he always crawled back into her ass—technically, of his own free will.

The strangest part of the whole thing was, deep down, Max knew that Hazel wasn't doing this out of anything like malicious intent. She didn't believe that he deserved to be punished, or anything like that. Rather than wasting a year of her valuable gooning time trying to find a cure for his condition, she'd simply decided that it would be more efficient — and sensible — to chemically reprogram him into being a willing, enthusiastic extension of her huge, filthy ass. This was how her brilliant, perverted mind worked, and after several months of futile, one-sided conversations, he'd given up trying to get her to see things any other way. 

The only upside of how everything had ended up, if he could even allow himself to think in those terms, was that he no longer had to worry about anything beyond the walls of Hazel's goon cave. He was never going to have to declare a major, let alone find a job. For better or worse, his life had become just as simple, streamlined, and utterly feral as that of his mistress—and with that in mind, he supposed this wasn't the worst possible outcome he could have ended up with. At least Hazel's torment was predictable, and not overtly sadistic. Maybe someday he'd even teach himself to like it—at least, if she didn't engineer him into liking it first. 
 
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"Oooh," sighed Hazel, slipping a hand down to her clit as she felt her tiny assistant struggling harder than ever against her rancid hole. "That was a really wet one!"
 
Beneath her, all Max could do was keep inhaling.

THE END

...Try again?