Kolossovna Family Reunion Shrunken First Semester chapter 17 by maximally

The knock came again, harder this time, followed by a voice—a deep, smoky baritone that seemed to lower the room's temperature by another twenty degrees. It was a voice that carried the weight of absolute authority, with a Russian accent that made Ursa's look light by comparison. 

"Ursula. Otkroy dver."

All at once, Max felt Ursa's entire body go rigid. The playful, post-coital warmth on her face was gone, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated dread. Her ice-blue eyes went wide, flicking to the shrunken man still nestled in her cleavage.

"Blyat," she muttered. "Mama…" 

Another voice, younger and sharper, chimed in. "Little bear? You are in there, yes?"

"And Katya," Ursa groaned, her voice tight. "Cykya blyat."

Realizing she had no time to lose, she glanced around the room—frantically searching for a hiding place that wouldn't immediately be found by the most perceptive and dangerous women she knew. The closet was too obvious. As were her drawers. Finally, her gaze fell to her own body, to the one place they would never think to look—the very place she'd just promised to give Max a break from.

"Apology, Max," she whispered, visibly frustrated. "I go back on my word, just this once."

Before he could even form a response, her huge hand plunged into her cleavage, closed around his tiny, sweat-slicked form, and yanked him out into the cold air. Then, in one desperate motion, she hiked up her shorts and shoved him down, headfirst, into the boundless depths of her ass crack.

As Max was forced downward, the world disappeared into a familiar universe of heat, pressure and stink. Brushing past the soft, sweaty skin of Ursa's inner cheeks, he came to rest with his face pressed firmly against her colossal, wrinkled asshole—even hotter and funkier than before, the aftermath of her morning dump an unmistakable and deeply inconvenient presence. He was buried alive, the sounds of the world instantly muffled into distant rumbling echoes. Whether this would be an improvement over meeting Ursa's family remained to be seen, but her reaction hadn't seemed promising.

He heard the door swing open, followed by several big, confident footsteps—one set clearly high heels, and the other more like boots.

"Mama. Katya," said Ursa, trying — and failing — to sound happy. "This is… surprise."

As Ursa sized up her mother and sister, she felt a familiar dread settle in her gut. Her mother, Katarina, seemed to be in her usual form, the same monument of calculated elegance and imposing power that Ursa had been only too happy to escape. At 6'5" and several hundred pounds of muscle and lavish curves, the amazonian MILF had a way of sucking all the air out of any room she entered—including this one. In defiance of the sunny Southern California weather outside, she was draped in a floor-length coat of pristine white fur, worn over a sinfully tight blood-red leather dress that strained over her colossal breasts — Ursa came by her powerful curves quite honestly — and equally monumental hips. Her platinum hair was cut into a severe bob that framed a face of ghostly pale, perfectly made-up skin, sharp winged eyeliner and bold crimson lips that looked more like war paint than cosmetics. Her eyes, piercing, unnerving gold, scanned the room with predictably icy disdain, missing nothing. 

Beside her, Katya looked like she was well on track to maturing into a sleeker, sharper instrument of the same dark legacy. Though she was the shortest of the family at 6'1", Ursa's 23-year-old sister was no less intimidating—and had still inherited a good deal of their mother's dense frame and powerful curves. She was clad head to toe in lethal elegance: a tailored black leather biker jacket over a tight black tank top, skin-tight designer jeans that looked custom-tailored to showcase her powerful hips and big, athletic rump, and heavy-soled combat boots that added an extra inch to her already formidable height. Her hair was the same Kolossovna platinum white, but worn in two long, severe braids that hung down her back like whips, tipped with sharp silver caps. Her eyes, the same ice-blue as Ursa's, glimmered with their usual look of sadistic glee. When she flashed a smile, Ursa caught a glimpse of her latest extravagant present from their mother—a set of custom silver grills with pronounced upper and lower canine fangs. 

"A pleasant one, I hope." Katarina's voice was a predatory purr. "Or do you forget your family so fast in this… sunny place?" At the word 'sunny,' her expression soured.

"Our plan was to join you for Parents' Weekend," Katarina continued, her heels clicking on the floor as she began to inspect her daughter's room. "My assistant booked wrong flight." She scoffed. "A simple error. Most unfortunate. For him."

Katya laughed—a harsh, cold bark. "I made his face my chair, all the way from Moscow." There was a dark, gleeful pride in her words. "He will have smell of my ass in his nose for weeks, I am sure."

Hearing this, Max shuddered against Ursa's big, wrinkled starfish. Wherever his giant guardian had gotten her gentle disposition toward those weaker than her, it clearly hadn't come from either of these two.

Katarina gave her eldest daughter a subtle smirk of approval, then returned her attention to Ursa. "Speaking of ass on face, we watch your last match on plane. The Oliveira girl. You went easy."

Ursa's whole body tensed up again around Max, and he could feel her sphincter clenching—a physical manifestation of her stress. "We won, Mama."

"A win is not just a win," Katarina countered. "It is the moment you say who you are. This place is making you soft."

"Perhaps her mind was elsewhere," Katya chimed in. "A new… distraction, perhaps?" Her eyes lingered a moment too long on her sister's conspicuously damp, unmade sheets.

"That is none of your business," Ursa managed, her voice tighter than ever. 

"Everything about you is our business," Katarina scoffed, tracing a gloved finger across her daughter's dress-making mannequin. "You forget that your education here is a formality. A backdrop for the connections you should be making."

"I am making connections," Ursa grumbled. Beneath her, Max was being clenched hard enough to see spots.

"Who? Some big, strong American boy?" Katya took a step forward, clearly feeding off her little sister's discomfort. "Tell me, little bear. Have any of them tried to… climb your mountain yet? Have any of them survived?"

"Assuming the smell in here did not kill them first," Katarina scoffed, flaring her nostrils dramatically. "I feel like I am back in your babushka's barn."

By now, the combined Russian offensive was already wearing thin on Ursa—although she knew better than to show any sign of weakness with these two. Instead, she took a furtive glimpse at her phone in search of any possible excuse.

"Do not worry about your classes," said Katarina, smiling smugly. "I have put word in with the school. They know you are mine for the day." She took a step toward the door and nodded for Katya to do the same. "You will meet us for lunch. The Excelsior Room at California Imperial. One hour. You will wear the dress I sent for your birthday, yes? And do something with your hair. You look like a stray dog."

"Da, Mama," Ursa said, simultaneously resigned and relieved.

The sharp click of heels receded, followed by the heavier, confident tread of boots. Katya paused at the door. "A shower would not kill you, either," she sneered. "See if you can wash some of this… California off of you."

She took one more step forward, then paused, a look of mock contemplation on her face. She shifted her weight onto one hip, and with a soft, almost dismissive grunt, she let out a sharp, concise fart.

Pffrt

It was a small, dry sound, utterly controlled and deliberately demeaning. A puff of air escaped the confines of her skin-tight jeans, carrying a formidable burst of cheesy stink into the room. It was not a fart of volume, but a final olfactory insult aimed at her sister's space. She didn't even flinch, merely glanced over her shoulder as the sound dissipated, her silver-fanged grin widening ever so slightly.

"Dosvidaniya, little bear," she purred, before closing the door with a soft, definitive click.

The silence that followed was broken only by the hum of air conditioning and Max's muffled struggles against his fleshy prison. 

For a long moment, Ursa was motionless. Max could feel the frantic pounding of her ears through the walls of flesh around him, a stark contrast to her usual steady demeanor. The oppressive heat and thick, musky aroma of her post-dump rump were suddenly secondary to the palpable amount of stress she seemed to be under.

Then, with a sigh that made her entire frame tremble around her shrunken friend, she closed the door, hooked her fingers into the back of her shorts and plucked him free. She held him up to her face, eyes weary with residual stress, cheeks flushed, and short platinum hair askew. For the first time since Max had met Ursa, she looked genuinely rattled. 

"Apology, Max," she breathed, shaking her head. "That was… unexpected. You are okay?"

Max took a second to get his bearings, sucking in deep breaths of cold, relatively clean air. "I'm fine," he managed, his voice a squeak compared to hers. "A little… wet. But okay. Are you okay?"

The question seemed to surprise Ursa. She let out a short breath that was almost a laugh. "Me?" A weary smile touched her lips. "I am used to it. They are… a lot. I am only sorry you are here for it."

"It's fine, really," said Max, offering another weak shrug.  "So, uh… brunch?"

"Da," Ursa chuckled, rolling her eyes. "Brunch. I know the place, we go every time they are in town. Is very fancy. Very… public." She looked back at Max, her expression turning pensive. "You will have to come. If I leave you here, and Katya came back to look around…" She grimaced. "She would not be gentle with you."

Hearing the clear apprehension in Ursa's usually confident voice, Max nodded solemnly. "Okay. That makes sense. But… does that mean…”

"Da," said Ursa, giving her prodigious rear a theatrical slap and flashing a small grin. "Only place I know you will be safe. I do not think I will have any more… morning business. But I may have to keep you there until tonight." She gave a slight, apologetic shrug of her colossal shoulders. "Not good day for me, either."

Max looked from Ursa's concerned face to the formidable curve of her hips. He was far from excited at the prospect of spending another unknown stretch of time trapped in his Siberian guardian's big, smelly rump. Still, some part of him liked the idea of having Ursa's back for this. However small he was, he got the impression she'd appreciate his company. 

He took a deep breath. "Okay, let's do it."

Ursa's face softened with relief. "You are brave, miniatyurnyy. Or stupid. Or maybe both." She brought him close to her lips and planted a soft kiss on the top of his head. "I will make it up to you. I promise. Starting with some crumbs at brunch. They do a good croissant."

The attempt at normalcy was endearing. Max managed a weak smile back. "Yeah. Sure."

"Okay," she said, glancing toward her closet. "Then we must get ready. And I must get… presentable."