Her Biggest (and Smallest) Prank Yet Shrunken First Semester chapter 3 by maximally

“Oh, no,” Max whimpered as the door swung wide. “Not you. Anyone but you…”

 

Of course it was her. Nobody else in the house slouched against a doorframe like it owed her money. At 5’3” and 180 pounds, Isabella Vasquez-Calhoun had always been the shorter of the two of them—a fact she’d spent four years making up for with pure, concentrated attitude. Now, though, she looked like a skyscraper in slouchy socks. Her thighs were like tree trunks, her hips were every bit as wide as her mom’s, and her ass had inherited every inch of the legendary Vasquez shelf. Up top, a pair of heavy, braless tits strained the oversized band shirt she’d slept in, which had ridden up over one hip to reveal yesterday’s black thong buried deep in the cheeks underneath.

 

The worst part was that she was cute, and Max had known it since the day she’d moved in. That was the problem with being forced into the same house as a girl your own age at fourteen: some broken part of his brain had filed her under pretty before the rest of him had time to file her under nightmare, and four years of wedgies, fake rumors and stolen chargers had never quite managed to move her out of that folder. Even now, with her black fringe mashed flat on one side, last night’s eyeliner smudged into raccoon rings, and that silver hoop winking in her lip, the round face and pouty mouth were exactly the ones every guy at his high school had asked him about. Dude, your stepsister’s hot. He’d hated that sentence for four years. He hated it more now, mostly because it was still true. Not that any of this did much for the smell rolling over to the bed: drugstore vanilla, unbrushed teeth, and the stale, slept-in musk of a girl who treated showering like an optional extracurricular.

 

“Yo, lil bro, you up?” Izzy stifled a yawn, phone in one hand, a dripping can of Monster in the other. “Mom says you gotta—”

 

Then she saw him.

 

She stopped so completely that the Monster slopped over her thumb and ran down to her wrist.

 

“Izzy,” Max said, and hated how small it sounded.

 

For one clean second, her face went totally blank. No joke. No sneer. It was the same look she got whenever a horror movie went somewhere she hadn’t predicted, or whenever Victoria found one of her vapes. Then her black lips peeled back into the single most dangerous smirk Max had ever seen.

 

“…Dude,” she breathed. “No. Fucking. Way.”

 

It started as a whisper. It turned into a laugh so fast he felt it in the pillow. Before Max could so much as scramble for the pillow, she’d crossed the room and dropped onto the edge of the mattress, which sank under her with a groan of springs. The whole navy landscape tipped toward her like a ramp. Max sat down hard without meaning to, his bare butt bouncing on the cotton, and suddenly the shadow under her shirt was his whole sky: the heavy undersides of her tits stretching the cheap fabric, the soft, pale swell of her stomach, the waistband of the thong sunk into flesh that still had sheet-lines printed on it.

 

“Oh my god,” she said again, delighted now. The phone came up.

 

“Don’t—”

 

 

At three inches tall, the fake shutter sound was a gunshot. Izzy pinched the screen, zoomed in, and cackled hard enough to send another wobble through the pillow.

 

“Holy shit. Look at you. You’re like a—wait, stay there, I need better lighting—”

 

“Izzy, stop. Something’s wrong with me!”

 

“Pfft. Yeah, no shit.” She tossed the phone onto the sheet. Then a hand came down out of the sky.

 

Izzy had manhandled him plenty before—headlocks, noogies, doorframe shoves. This was not that. Her fingers were warm and sticky with soda, and her thumb and index finger pinched around his naked torso with a carelessness that somehow still didn’t crush him. The bedroom fell away in a nauseous elevator rush. A moment later, he was dangling at eye level, twelve inches from the stud in her nose.

 

She looked huge.

 

For his whole life, being taller than Izzy had been the one thing he had over her. He’d never once used it for anything. Now her eye was a glossy dark planet, a grain of sleep stuck in the corner like a boulder, and every time she blinked, he felt the breeze.

 

“What are you, three inches? Two and a half?” She snorted. “Dude, I took a shit twice your size last night.”

 

“Put me down.”

 

“In a sec. Inspection time.”

 

She turned him over the way she checked a receipt she thought someone had cheated her on. The pad of her thumb dragged down his ribs, then lower, lazy and shameless, checking that he was real and not a very committed craft project. He could see the sugar grains on her lip. He could feel the pulse in her fingertip. And as she shifted her weight on the mattress, he could see the damp, darker patch on the front of her thong, where a black curl of hair had escaped the elastic.

 

Then something deep in her gut gave a low, bubbling grumble.

 

“Oh, hold on,” said Izzy, totally unbothered. “Monster’s kicking in.”

 

PPPPPPBBBBBBBBBRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPPPPPTTTTTT!

 

It ripped out of her into the mattress like a dirt bike revving, so loud and so close that the whole bed buzzed under them. A second later, the cloud came rolling up past her hip and swallowed him whole: hot, sour, and greasy, like the bottom of a Taco Bell bag left in a car overnight, with an artificial-fruit tang of energy drink on top. Max’s eyes watered instantly. His lungs locked up. He kicked and choked between her fingers like a fish on a line.

 

“Aww,” Izzy cooed, fanning the air in front of him with exactly zero urgency. “Is lil bro too stinky? That’s, like, a two out of ten. You’re gonna have to toughen up.”

 

Max wanted to scream. Instead, to his absolute horror, his body decided to do something else.

 

The heat of her hand. The smell. The sheer, overwhelming closeness of a girl after an entire summer of nothing. His tiny cock stood straight up in the cage of her fingers.

 

Izzy felt it. Of course she did.

 

She went still. Then she snorted so hard her chest jumped. “Are you kidding me? You’re getting hard from this?” She twisted him sideways for a better look. “Oh my god. Mom was right. You’re so easy it’s actually sad. Like, finally a girl touches you, and it’s your sister, and you’re tiny. Sick.”

 

“Stepsister. And I’m not—that’s not—”

 

“Uh-huh. Sure, dude.”

 

Grinning, she brought him in and rubbed the length of his naked body along the warm cotton over her sternum, like she was wiping a crumb off her shirt. Her tits rolled on either side of him, heavy and sleep-damp, the fabric going see-through where last night’s sweat had dried. When she laughed, the flesh around him moved like water.

 

“Oh, I’m so keeping you,” she said. “I’m putting you in a jar. I’m getting you a little leash. Say ‘please, Big Sis Izzy, be gentle with me.’”

 

“Fuck you.”

 

“Close enough.” Her lip ring flashed. She grabbed the phone again. “Okay. Camera. Stay still or I’m posting it to the group chat. Miguel already thinks you’re a virgin loser. This is just documentation.”

 

“Who’s Miguel?”

 

“Pfft. Miguel? From the Valero? He’s my plug, dude.” She said it the way other girls said he’s my lab partner. “Like, my weed guy. He’s got the good carts. The mango ones.”

 

“Your weed dealer thinks I’m a virgin loser?”

 

“Well, he’s also kinda my fuckbuddy now. As of, like, June.” Izzy shrugged, totally unbothered, and the shrug bounced him in her fingers. “So we talk. About stuff. He’s got a really nice car, by the way, and he’s surprisingly good at—”

 

“Please stop.”

 

“—parallel parking, perv. God.”

 

Max had a lot of questions. He decided he didn’t want the answers to any of them. Then, all at once, the rest of last night came back to him in the wrong order. Izzy padding into the kitchen at midnight with two glasses of something fizzy and handing him one, which she’d never done in four years. Just take it, God, you’re so dramatic about caffeine. The way she’d watched him drink instead of looking at her phone. That should’ve been the giveaway.

 

“Izzy,” he said slowly. “What was in that drink?”

 

For a second, her smirk wobbled. “Okay. Not nothing.” She bounced him once, trying to keep it light. “So Miguel’s cousin knows a guy, right? And the guy sells this stuff. Little vials, like, party favors. You drop one in somebody’s drink, they wake up tiny, everybody takes pics, and they’re back to normal in a couple days. Miguel hooked me up. That’s literally what he told me. A couple days, tops.”

 

Max had been feeling, if not good, then at least okay about the words “a couple days.” Now he played the rest of it back. Her weed guy. Who was also her hookup. Whose cousin knew a guy.

 

“So the stuff in my body,” he said faintly, “came from your weed dealer’s cousin’s guy.”

 

“Via Miguel. He’s super reliable.”

 

“He sells you vapes in a gas-station parking lot.”

 

“Reliably, though.” She shrugged. “Forty bucks. Cash. It was supposed to be funny, dude. You were being such a martyr about college. I figured, like, humble you a little. Character development before you left.”

 

Whatever confidence Max had left curled up and died in the bottom of his tiny stomach.

 

“Okay,” he said, forcing himself to breathe. “Okay. Even if it wears off by itself… did Miguel give you anything to undo it? An antidote or something?”

 

“No? He said it doesn’t need one. It just fades.” She shifted him into her left hand so she could scroll with her right. “But I already hit up the guy. Miguel gave me his number for, like, customer service. Look.”

 

She turned the phone toward him. It was a chat with no profile picture. At the top, where the dealer’s name should have been, it said This account doesn’t exist. Underneath was a column of her own messages, the first one sent at 3:12 a.m.

 

 

 

 

“Since three?” said Max.

 

“Since, like, three-ish,” Izzy admitted. “Then I texted Miguel, and Miguel texted his cousin, and now his cousin’s not answering either. Super reassuring customer service.” She laughed, but nothing about it was funny. “And, like, Miguel did tell me one other thing the guy said.”

 

“What thing?”

 

“That the cheap stuff’s like a roofie with a tape measure. Knocks you small for the weekend.” Her thumb stopped scrolling. “And the other bottles, the expensive ones, are the ones people don’t come back from. And he had both kinds in the bag. And I wasn’t really, like… paying attention to which one he gave me.” She swallowed. “So, very maybe, I got the permanent kind. By accident.”

 

 

For a long time, nobody said anything. There was just the rattling AC, a lawnmower two yards over, and the soda can sweating onto her thigh.

 

Six weeks until move-in. A twin XL on a floor he’d never seen. Victoria downstairs, planning a goodbye dinner with way too much food and a speech about being proud of him.

 

“You ruined it,” he said.

 

“Okay, dramatic—”

 

“I was leaving.” It came out thinner than he wanted and meaner than he meant, and every bit as true. “That was the whole point. I was getting out of this house and away from your bathroom and her checking if I packed socks. I was gonna have a door that locked. You don’t get to laugh and call me dramatic like you put salt in my drink. You put that in my drink. You ended it.”

 

Izzy’s face did something complicated. For a second it went toward something that might have been guilt, or fear, or the start of crying, which he’d only seen from her maybe four times and never because of him. Then it landed back on the old smirk, because the old smirk was safer.

 

“People bounce back from dumber shit than this,” she muttered. “We’ll fix it before Mom turns it into a whole thing. You’re not ended, Jesus.” Her throat moved. “You’re just… portable.”

 

That was the yes. As far as Izzy was concerned, the help had already come with a pocket.

 

Then, downstairs, a cabinet door closed.

 

Both of them froze, just like they used to when they were fourteen and heard Victoria’s sandals on the kitchen tile. The good coffee grinder whirred. Keys jingled. Izzy’s eyes cut to the door, then down to the phone in her other hand, still open to the group chat, with his photo sitting in the message box.

 

Her thumb hovered over send like it was a detonator.

 

“Izzy,” Max whispered. “Don’t.”

 

She smirked. She didn’t put the phone down.