Order of Operations Shrunken First Semester chapter 25 by maximally

On Wednesday morning Victoria found a pen.

It was pink, a fat gel pen with a plastic flamingo on the cap, from the bank, and she dug it out of the bottom of her purse while her coffee went cold on the nightstand. Max watched her from the jewelry tray. She sat on the edge of the bed in her robe with Izzy's legal pad on her knee, and she ticked fifteen, and then she ticked sixteen, two round careful pink checks next to Izzy's purple skulls. She did it the way she signed permission slips. She did it the way she'd label a freezer bag.

Then her pen moved down one line and stopped.

17. sex (??? the logistics??)

"Logistics," Victoria said.

Max didn't say anything. His face had gone hot. It had been going hot on and off since yesterday morning and showed no sign of stopping.

She tapped the pen against her teeth. Then she looked over at him in the tray, the silk scarf up to his chest, and she didn't smile, exactly. She looked at him the way she looked at a recipe she'd decided to make for a holiday.

"Mama's going to think about it," she said.

*

She thought about it all day.

She thought about it at the bank, where she took him in her bra and stood in line with her hand flat over her chest. She thought about it at the nail salon, with him tucked against her left tit while Kim did her toes, and twice she laughed at nothing and Kim asked what was funny and Victoria said, "Nothing, Kim. Life." She thought about it in the car. At a red light on El Camino she reached into her blouse and touched him with one fingertip, just once, down his back, and took her hand away, and the light changed.

Izzy didn't come home. Her door stayed shut all day, and at four she texted at miguels with no emoji, and Victoria read it and put the phone face down and didn't answer.

At dinner she set him on a saucer by her plate and fed him a grain of rice off the tip of her fork, and while he ate it she said, very quietly, without looking up from her carnitas, "Mama wants to ask you something first."

He swallowed the rice.

"Yesterday Mama asked if you wanted Mama to stop." She cut a piece of tortilla into smaller and smaller pieces. "That's not the same. Mama knows it's not the same. Saying don't stop is just—letting it happen. Mama's been letting things happen to you for twenty-six days." She put the knife down. "So Mama's asking the other way. What do you want, mijo?"

He looked up at her. Her face was very still. Her eyes were wet at the corners and she wasn't doing anything about it.

He thought about yesterday. Her clit under his chest and his arms around it. Her saying his name, not the other name. He thought about Izzy's tongue last Thursday, her molars resting on his ribs, ask better. He thought about the shower, and just with you, and how it had felt to be held and then used and then held again, and how this, now, was the first time anybody in the house had asked him what he wanted before instead of after.

"I want to do it too," he said. "Not—you doing it to me. With you. I want to do something."

Victoria let out a breath through her nose.

"Okay," she said. "Okay. Then that's what we'll do."

*

She laid a hand towel on the bed, in the middle of the cream duvet, folded twice. She put him on his back on it.

"So you don't get lost," she said. She was already naked. She'd taken the robe off at the door this time, without making a show of it, and the lamp was on, and he could see everything: the heavy hang of her tits, the stretch marks low on her belly, the trimmed dark curls, the damp at the top of her thighs where she'd been thinking about this since breakfast.

She climbed onto the bed on her knees, one on each side of the towel, and walked herself forward over him until her thighs were two brown pillars and her pussy hung above him, close enough that he could feel the heat of it on his face.

He had never seen it from underneath. The lips were dark and full and swollen apart, slick already, a deep pink seam between them that shone in the lamplight. A bead of her came loose and fell and landed on his chest, hot. The smell came down with it, musk and salt, the smell from the drawer and the briefs and yesterday, only stronger, with nothing in the way.

"Mama's going to come down now," she said, above him, between her own tits. "You tell Mama. Anything. You move, okay? You don't just lie there. You're not a toy tonight."

"I know," Max said.

She came down.

Her lips landed on him from his chin to his thighs. They opened when they touched him, and folded down around his sides, and closed over his shoulders and his hips, and he was lying in her, in the hot wet groove of her, with her weight just resting there and her clit sitting on his chest, hard under its hood, the size of his fist.

She didn't move yet. She waited.

He moved first.

He got his arms up around her clit, the way he had on Tuesday, and held it. He rocked his hips up into her, into the wet flesh closing over his legs, and the lips slid along him, and he felt her thighs shake on both sides of the towel.

"Ay," Victoria said. "Oh. Okay. Okay, mijo."

Then she rode him.

She ground down. Her whole pussy dragged over him from his feet to his face, her lips peeling open over his head and closing back down over his shins, her clit rolling up his stomach and across his chest and his mouth and off the top of his head, and then back. Over and over. Each pass slicked him from head to foot and left him gasping in the open air for a half second before the next one came down. She went faster. He met her. When her clit came over his face, he licked it. When it came over his chest, he grabbed it. When the lips closed on his legs, he pushed up into them with his hips, hard, harder, and every time he did it she made a sound.

He was so hard it hurt. Every pass of her went straight over it, slick and hot and heavy, rubbing him against the towel and against her at once. He didn't hide it. He didn't apologize for it in his head. He arched up into her.

"Tell Mama," she gasped. "Tell Mama, mijo—"

"Mama," he said, into her clit. It was the only word he had.

She put both hands flat on the headboard and rode him harder. The bed rocked. His whole world was her: her heat, her wet, her smell, her weight coming down and grinding and lifting, her clit throbbing against his tongue, her thighs closing in on both sides of the towel until there was no light at all, only her. He held on. He pushed. He felt something build at the base of his spine and kept going toward it, and her hips stuttered, and she cried out above him, his name, Max, not mijo, the whole word.

He came.

It went through his whole body, all three inches of him at once, so hard his vision went white in the dark of her, and he shook against her clit and cried out into it, and she felt it. He knew she felt it, because she stopped grinding and pushed down and held still on him while it happened, holding him in her, her lips clamped over his body and her clit on his mouth, until he'd stopped shaking. Then she came too, right after, with him still in her, her pussy pulsing over him in long hard squeezes, and he held her clit through every one.

mmmh

That one was hers.

*

She lifted off him after a long time. He lay on the towel, soaked from his hair to his toes, panting, and she lay down on her side next to him with her head on her arm and looked at him.

"Mijo," she said. Her voice wasn't steady. "Was that—did you—"

"Yeah," Max said.

She closed her eyes. Her mouth shook at the corner. Then she laughed, small and wet and relieved, and put one fingertip on his chest, over his heart.

"Mama's never seen anybody that little that happy," she said.

Before she turned off the lamp, she reached over to the nightstand, uncapped the flamingo pen, and made a round pink check next to seventeen. She did it lying down, with the pad propped on her pillow and her other hand curled around him on the towel. Her pen hovered over eighteen and moved on. "That one's not Mama's," she said. She didn't look at nineteen. He did.

*

Thursday was the longest day of his life.

She didn't do anything different. That was what made it long. Breakfast in her bra. Errands in her bra. A nap at two with him on her chest and her heartbeat under him, and she slept, or seemed to, and he lay there listening to it and thinking about the pad on the nightstand and the line two below the pink check. At dinner she fed him a grain of rice and a fleck of chicken off her fork and talked about the weather, which was hot, and her sister Fanny's kitchen remodel. Izzy came home at nine and went straight upstairs. Victoria watched her go and didn't say anything.

At ten-thirty she took him to bed. She put him on the towel on the duvet, the same as the night before, and she got undressed with the lamp on, and she sat down on the edge of the bed beside him and picked up the pad.

"Nineteen," she read. "Insertion. Like all the way." She put it back down. "Izzy wrote like all the way. You know that's Izzy."

"I know."

"Mama doesn't want to do anything because Izzy wrote it." She turned and looked at him. "Mama wants to do it because you want it. So you tell Mama. You tell Mama in words, mijo, not in a nod."

He thought about last night, and her lips closing over his whole body, and the center of her opening under him on Tuesday, glistening, the place he'd looked at and asked about. He thought about it for longer than he needed to, because she'd asked him to, and she was waiting.

"I want to," Max said. "I want to be in you. All of me."

She let out a breath. She lay back on the cream duvet, among the pillows, and drew her knees up and let them fall open, and picked him up off the towel.

"Mama too," she said.

*

She did it head first.

She brought him down and put the top of his head to her opening, and it was so hot it was nearly a burn, and wet, and then she pushed, gently, and his head went in.

The world closed. Hot dark walls folded over his face, his ears, slick and ridged and alive, squeezing in on every side. He couldn't see anything. He couldn't hear anything but her heartbeat, coming through the walls, everywhere, beating into his skull. She pushed again. His shoulders went in. The rim of her stretched around them and clamped and then gave, and his arms were pinned at his sides, and he was sliding, and the walls pulled at him, drew him in deeper on their own.

His chest. His waist. His hips. Her muscle closed over his knees.

His feet were the last thing out. He felt her fingertip on the soles, pushing him the last inch, and then her fingertip was gone and the rim closed over his ankles and sealed.

He was inside her. All of him.

It was a pocket of pure heat, tight on every side, slick, and it moved. It squeezed him from his feet to his head in long rippling pulls, and let go, and squeezed again. Her heartbeat was so loud in there it was the only thing. Her taste was everywhere: in his mouth, his nose, his eyes, sharp and salty and musky, thick on his skin. He could barely breathe. He sipped what there was, the thin hot air that came and went as she clenched. It was enough. It was somehow enough, the same way it had been enough all night in Izzy's crack, except that this was Mama, and she'd asked.

Far away, through her body, he heard her voice.

"Ay, mijo. Mama's got you. Mama's got all of you."

She started to move. Her hips rolled, and he rolled with them, the walls dragging along every inch of him. She was touching herself; he could feel it, the rhythm of her fingers on her clit coming through her in little jolts. The walls tightened. The squeezes got shorter, harder. Her heartbeat sped up until it was hammering.

He pushed back. He couldn't move his arms, so he moved what he could, his head, his shoulders, his hips, against the walls of her, rocking into them, and every time he did it she made a sound he could hear through her whole body.

He wanted this. That was what had changed. Not last night, not on the duvet with her lips closing over him; it had changed long before that, somewhere he hadn't been watching, and tonight was just the first time he'd let himself see it. He wasn't lying in it waiting for it to be over. He wanted to be held this hard by her, inside her, the only thing in the world she was thinking about. He wanted to stay.

She came.

It started at her deepest point, past his head, and rolled down through her and over him. The walls clamped on his whole body at once, so hard the air went out of him, and held, and then let go and clamped again, over and over, pulsing around him from his skull to his ankles. Her heartbeat roared. Somewhere out in the room she cried out, a long shaking cry with his name in it. Her thighs closed. He felt the bed shake.

Then the pulses got farther apart. Then they stopped. She lay there, panting, her walls still twitching around him, and her heartbeat came down by degrees from a gallop to a run to a walk.

*

She took him out by the ankles.

Her fingers came in after him, and found his feet, and pulled, gently, and he slid out of her the way he'd gone in, all of him, and then he was hanging in the cool air of the bedroom, upside down, dripping. She turned him the right way up and held him in her palm above her belly.

He was soaked. Every inch of him was slick with her, shining in the lamplight, his hair plastered flat. He was gasping. He was shaking, and it wasn't the shaking from Lupe's bed, or from Izzy's teeth.

Victoria looked at him. Her face was flushed, her lips parted, her eyes wet at the corners. She looked about the way he felt.

He reached back toward her. He didn't decide to. His hand just went out, toward her, toward the place he'd been, and stayed there in the air.

She watched him do it. Then she brought him down onto her chest, between her tits, over her heart, and cupped her hand over him, and they lay there.

After a while she reached over without looking and found the flamingo pen and the pad, and he heard the pen scratch once, a round pink check, and the pad go back on the nightstand.

*

He woke up at three.

The lamp was off. The AC was humming. He was where she'd left him, on her chest, under her palm, and her breathing was long and even, and for a second he thought she was asleep.

Then he looked up, past the slope of her tit and the line of her throat, and found her eyes. They were open. She was looking down at him in the dark. She'd been looking for a while; he could tell from how still she was.

"Mama?"

"Shh. Go back to sleep, mijo." Her thumb moved once across his back. "Mama's just looking at you."