Mama V's New Routine Shrunken First Semester chapter 8 by maximally

By Thursday, Max had a schedule.

He hadn't asked for one. Nobody had asked him anything since Saturday. But Victoria had printed it out on the label maker anyway, in pink, and stuck it to the side of the jewelry tray he slept in, like a chore chart on a fridge.

8:15 — MIJO FOOT RUB 💕 10:00 — COUCH TIME (GENTLE!!) 12:00–4:00 — HELPING MAMA 7:00 — DINNER W/ MAMA 9:00 — STORIES 📺

Max had read it every morning for four days. It never got less upsetting. What bothered him most was the two exclamation points after GENTLE. Victoria had put them there for his benefit. He was pretty sure they were also for hers.

*

The foot rubs were the easy part now. That was its own kind of horrible.

By Monday he could do both feet in twenty-five minutes. By Wednesday he was down to twenty, and he'd started to notice things he didn't want to notice. Her right arch was tighter than her left, because she always crossed that leg. She liked it best when he started at the heel and worked up, saving the toes for last. The smell of her soles first thing in the morning was soft and sleepy, mostly shea butter, and it didn't really get its full salty warmth until the afternoon, after she'd been padding around barefoot in the kitchen.

He knew all this now. He knew it the way he knew the button combos for his favorite fighting game. His hands just did it.

"Mijo," Victoria sighed on Wednesday, toes curling lazily above him. "You're getting so good. You know that? Mama could get used to this."

"You already did," Max muttered into her heel.

"What was that, sweetie?"

"Nothing."

*

Couch time was not the easy part.

The first time, on Monday, Victoria had spent ten full minutes just getting ready. She arranged him in the exact center of the cream sectional's middle cushion. Then she moved him an inch to the left. Then back. Then she stood over him in her booty shorts and asked if he was sure he was ready, sure he could breathe, and sure he would yell if anything hurt, until Izzy finally said from the kitchen, "Mom, Abuela did it in, like, four seconds."

"Abuela has practice," Victoria snapped.

"With who?"

Victoria didn't answer that.

She turned around. Max had seen Victoria's ass a thousand times. He had seen it at the beach, at the gym, and stuffed into whatever she'd decided to wear to Izzy's graduation. He had seen it pressed against his face during a living-room Stink-Face last winter that he'd tried very hard to forget. It had never looked like this: two vast, glossy-brown butt cheeks in tight green shorts, filling the sky from one side to the other, jiggling as she found her balance. The shorts had ridden up into her crack enough that he could see the bottoms of both cheeks spill out, and the creases where they met her thighs, each as long as he was tall.

"Okay," Victoria breathed. "Okay. Mama's coming down. Slowly."

She came down at the speed of a glacier. Slower than Lupe. So slowly that her thighs started to shake halfway, and she had to grab the arm of the couch. For a full three seconds she hovered there above him, a trembling ceiling, before she finally let out a little gasp and settled the rest of the way.

Victoria was lighter than Lupe. Sixty pounds lighter, according to the math. The math also said it didn't matter. The softness hit first, deep and pillowy, and then the weight came on and kept coming. The cushion sank. Max sank. Warm butt and stretchy fabric closed over his face, both cheeks pressing in from either side until his nose was buried in her crack, and suddenly he couldn't see anything at all. The world was dark and hot and smelled like cocoa butter and fabric softener and Victoria.

"Mijo?" Her voice came from very far away, muffled through her own body. "Mijo, are you okay? Wiggle if you're okay."

He wiggled.

"Ay." She let out a shaky, delighted laugh, and her whole ass jiggled around him. "Oh, sweetie. I can feel you. You're so little. It's like sitting on a... a little bean bag."

She stayed for exactly thirty seconds. Izzy counted out loud from the kitchen. Then she sprang up so fast she nearly fell over the coffee table, scooped him up, and showered him with kisses and apologies until her coffee went cold.

That was Monday.

On Tuesday, she stayed for two minutes and only apologized once.

On Wednesday, she sat down with a magazine.

On Thursday morning, she sat down at ten o'clock sharp with her coffee and her phone. She tucked her legs up under her, shimmied her hips once from side to side to "get comfortable," and stayed there for twenty minutes while she answered emails. Max lay underneath her in the crushing dark and listened to her thumbs tapping and her heartbeat thudding somewhere far above. Every few minutes she shifted her weight without seeming to notice, and the two great cheeks of her ass rolled across him, grinding back and forth like two warm sandbags on a seesaw.

When she finally stood up, she stretched, yawned, and plucked him out of the dent with two fingers like a lost remote.

"Good boy," she said absently, still looking at her phone. "Mama barely felt you today."

He wasn't sure if that was a compliment.

*

HELPING MAMA meant chores.

On Monday, he'd ridden on her shoulder. He fell off twice. The second time, she caught him in midair two inches above the garbage disposal, screamed so loud the neighbor's dog started barking, and then held him against her chest for ten full minutes while her heart hammered in his ear.

On Tuesday, he rode in her bra.

"It's the safest place, sweetie," she'd explained, already hooking a berry nail into the neckline of her tank top. "Mama can feel you the whole time. If you fall, Mama will know."

So for four hours a day, Max lived in the deep, humid crack between his stepmother's tits while she did laundry, loaded the dishwasher, scrubbed the counters, and talked on the phone with her sister. Every time she leaned over, the whole world tilted, and two brown boobs pressed in until he could barely breathe, sweat pooling at the bottom of her cleavage around his feet. Every time she stood up, they relaxed and let him slide another quarter-inch deeper. She carried him to the grocery store on Wednesday and pushed the cart through the aisles with him tucked inside her bra under a loose cardigan. She chatted with the cashier for five whole minutes about avocado prices while Max lay pressed between her tits under the cardigan, a nipple the size of his head pressing through the bra lace beside him, listening to her heartbeat speed up and slow down as she laughed.

Nobody noticed. That was what got him. He was right there, right there, eighteen years old and pressed between her breasts in the middle of a Safeway, and nobody had any idea.

"Fanny says hi, mijo," Victoria said on Wednesday afternoon. She'd just hung up the phone, and she patted the top of her tits without looking down. "Mama didn't tell her everything. Just that you're... staying close to home for a while."

"Staying close?"

"Mm-hm." She patted him again. "You can't get much closer than this."

*

Dinner was at seven.

On Monday, Max ate dinner off a saucer next to Victoria's plate, like a normal, if very small, member of the family. He had one grain of rice, a shred of chicken the size of his arm, and a drop of salsa in a thimble. Izzy watched him eat with her chin on her hand and an expression of deep, scientific interest.

On Tuesday, Izzy said, very innocently, "Didn't the list say something about, like, cushions? During meals?"

"It did not," said Max.

"No, it totally did. It was number two-B. I color-coded it."

Victoria glanced at the legal pad, which now lived on the kitchen counter next to the fruit bowl, then at her chair. Then she glanced at him.

On Wednesday, Max ate dinner from under Victoria.

She put a folded napkin down on the seat of her kitchen chair, set him on it, and then sat down very carefully on top of him with her plate. She ate carnitas left over from Lupe's Tupperware and chatted with Izzy about some influencer drama and laughed at Izzy's jokes. Max lay underneath in the dark and felt every laugh come down through her body. He felt her shift her weight forward to reach the salt and lean back after her second helping. He felt the long, contented sigh when she finally put down her fork.

He didn't get any dinner. Victoria remembered at about nine-thirty and made him a crumb of tortilla, with many apologies.

On Thursday, she didn't even put down the napkin.

*

Stories were at nine.

It was the same couch, the same middle cushion, and the same dent, which was getting deeper. Victoria curled up under a throw blanket with a glass of wine and the remote, Izzy sprawled across the other end of the sectional with her phone, and Max lay underneath Victoria's ass while they watched three episodes of a dating show about people who weren't allowed to see each other.

It was the longest stretch yet. A full two hours. By now he'd learned how to breathe under there: short, shallow sips of hot air whenever she shifted, timed to the rhythm of her weight. He'd learned that if he wiggled at the right moment, she'd lift up just slightly without even noticing she was doing it. He'd learned that the close smell of her stopped being overwhelming after the first twenty minutes and became something else. Something heavy and enveloping and almost familiar, like the smell of his own pillow.

He didn't like that he'd learned that.

Halfway through the second episode, during a commercial, Victoria reached for her wine, leaned slightly to one side, and let out a little sigh of relief that came from somewhere very much south of her mouth.

toot

It was small. Tiny. Barely a puff, warm and faintly sweet, like the wine. Victoria didn't even seem to notice. She just settled back down on top of him and kept watching. The cushion swallowed most of it, and Max swallowed the rest.

From the far end of the sectional, Izzy looked up from her phone.

"Mom," she said. "Did you just..."

"Did I what?"

"Nothing." Izzy went back to her phone. Max could hear her typing. "Just. Number eleven. That's all."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Isabella."

"Totally. Me neither."

Victoria shifted her weight, and two enormous ass cheeks mashed down over Max's face, burying him like a bug under a beanbag. He decided he didn't know what Izzy was talking about either.

*

Thursday night ended the way every night did now. After stories, Victoria stood up and fished him out of the dent with two fingers. She held him up to her face and checked him over for "boo-boos," which there never were, and gave him a kiss that turned him berry red from the waist up. Then she carried him upstairs to the jewelry tray.

Except this time, Izzy followed them.

She leaned against the doorframe of Victoria's bedroom with the legal pad tucked under one arm and a fresh Monster in the other hand. She was wearing her pajama shorts and an old My Chemical Romance shirt, and the look on her face was so innocent it practically glowed.

"Hey. So. Mom."

"Mija, Mama is very tired."

"No, totally. I just think it's been going really well." Izzy tapped the legal pad. "Like, he's crushing it. Foot rubs, couch, bra, dinner. That's, like, three greens in a week. That's amazing progress."

"It is, isn't it?" Victoria beamed down at Max in her palm. "Mama's so proud."

"And I was looking at the list," Izzy went on casually. "And the next things that are still green are kind of boring, so, um. Number twelve."

Max went cold.

Victoria hesitated. "Remind Mama what twelve is, mija?"

"Getting carried in your underwear. All day." Izzy said it the way you'd read a weather report. "There was, like, a lot of that in the folder. Like, the most. He had a whole subfolder. It was called Mama's Panties. With a heart."

"I did not—" Max started.

"I'm just saying, he's clearly ready." Izzy shrugged. "And it's, like, safe. Safer than the bra, honestly. He can't fall out. You'd always know exactly where he is."

Victoria didn't say anything.

She glanced at Max in her palm. Then her gaze slid down to herself. Her green booty shorts. The curve of her hips. The huge round ass behind them, the waistband sitting snug across it, high and tight.

Max watched her think about it. He watched her do the math. He could practically see the numbers ticking over behind her warm brown eyes: the size of him, the size of her, how much room there was, how long a day was.

"All day?" Victoria said quietly.

"I mean, you'd work up to it," said Izzy. "Like with the couch. Start with an hour."

"Hm."

It wasn't a no.

Victoria set him down in the jewelry tray. She tucked the silk scarf around him with gentle, precise fingers. She smoothed the edges and kissed the top of his head. But she was still looking at the legal pad over his head, and there was a little crease between her eyebrows that Max had learned to fear more than anything in the world.

"Not this week," she decided at last. "He's had so much this week. Mama doesn't want to overwhelm him."

"Totally," Izzy agreed. "Totally. No rush."

She pushed herself off the doorframe and started down the hall. Halfway there, she turned around and looked over her shoulder.

"I'll leave the list on your nightstand, though," she said brightly. "Just in case."

The legal pad landed on the nightstand right next to the jewelry tray with a slap. Max looked at it. Number twelve was circled in purple. Twice. There was a heart next to it.

Victoria turned off the lamp and climbed into bed. The mattress dipped and sighed under her weight. For a while she lay there in the dark, breathing slowly.

Then her phone lit up her face from below.

Max lay in his jewelry tray and watched her scroll. It didn't look like email. It looked like a lingerie site. Full-coverage briefs. Cotton. Breathable. Extra room in back.

She scrolled for a long time.

She stopped. Zoomed in. Her thumb hovered over the pink Add to Cart button, and the screen threw a pale rectangle of light across the jewelry tray where Max lay with the silk scarf pulled up to his eyes.

She tapped it.