Borrowed by Izzy (and Miguel) Shrunken First Semester chapter 26 by maximally

"Who," Victoria said, "is Miguel?"

It was Friday, day twenty-eight, fifteen days before move-in, and she was at the kitchen island with Max in the front of her blouse, the way she'd carried him every waking minute since Tuesday. She hadn't let him out of reach for three days. She'd taken him to the nail salon in her bra. She'd taken him to the bank in her bra. She'd slept with him in her palm, on her chest, her heartbeat right under him all night, and twice he'd woken up and found her awake too, just looking at him in the dark.

Izzy leaned on the counter with her phone in her hand. Outside, at the curb, something with a hole in its exhaust was idling.

"A friend," she said. "Mom. You've met him."

"Mama has not met any Miguel."

"You've, like, seen him. He drove me to graduation. The Charger." Izzy rolled her eyes. "He's chill. He's super chill. He's, like, the least threatening person on earth. And he wants to meet Max. And I watched him Monday when you were—" She stopped, very deliberately, just long enough. "When you needed a night. So."

Victoria's hand went flat over the blouse, over him.

"One night," Izzy said. "You've had him all week. You're gonna have him for, like, ever. It's one night, Mom."

Victoria looked down into her blouse. Max looked up. He didn't know what she saw in his face. He didn't know what he wanted her to see.

"He sleeps better in there," Izzy said, flatly, the way she'd said it Tuesday, as if it were a fact about weather. "I'll take care of him."

Victoria closed her eyes. When she opened them, she reached into her blouse and took him out, and held him in front of her face for a long moment.

"Mama will be right here," she said. "You call Mama. Any time. Any time, mijo, Mama will come get you."

She kissed him. Then she put him in Izzy's palm, and Izzy's fingers closed, and Victoria's hand stayed out in the air after she'd let go, open, as if she'd forgotten to take it back.

*

Miguel's studio was a garage.

It was his tía's garage, behind a stucco house in Santa Clara with a lemon tree and a chain-link fence and a chihuahua that screamed at the Charger from the moment it turned onto the street. Inside, someone had laid down a square of gray carpet over the oil stains and called it a floor. There was a queen mattress on the carpet with no frame, a black fitted sheet, and a pillow with no case. There was a gaming chair with the leather peeling off the arms, and a forty-inch TV on a milk crate, and a mini-fridge humming in the corner under a strip of purple LED lights that only half worked. A stack of cardboard boxes against the wall said MOCHO on the side in Sharpie. The boxes were empty. A water heater ticked in the corner.

It smelled of weed and Axe and old pizza and motor oil, and under that, of a guy who slept here and didn't open the door much.

"Welcome," Miguel said, spreading his arms, "to the lab."

He was exactly as tall and as stupidly good-looking as he'd been on the sectional in Sunnyvale: dreads tied back, the chinstrap razored sharp, the gold chain going green against his neck, a white tank top and low basketball shorts and slides with socks. His eyes were already red. He bent down over Izzy's palm until his face filled the whole world, and grinned.

"Stuart Little. My guy. Bro, you made it out the house."

"Hi," said Max.

"He's so polite. Iz, he's so polite. That's a Victoria thing, right? That's a mom thing." Miguel straightened up and lowered his voice. "Is your mom, like, mad? About me? She looked at me through the window one time and I felt it in my spine."

"She doesn't care about you," Izzy said. "Sit down. You're blocking the TV."

*

Izzy went first.

She did it on the mattress, on her back, with her black jean shorts kicked off onto the carpet and Miguel's tank top—a different one, cleaner—pushed up over her tits. She didn't make a production out of it. She just held Max in her right hand and looked at Miguel the whole time, not at him.

"Watch," she said.

She put him on her clit.

It was nothing like Victoria. He knew that in the first second. Victoria had laid him down, and held him, and looked at him, and said his name. Izzy just used him. She rubbed him on herself fast and hard, the way you'd use a vibrator with a dying battery, her fingers locked around his waist and his face dragged up and down through her wet lips. Her pussy was hot and puffy and swollen dark, the black curls trimmed close, and her clit was a hard little nub that knocked against his chest every pass. She tasted of salt and of something sharp, and the smell was strong, musky, a day of heat in denim shorts.

"Bro," Miguel said from the gaming chair. "Bro."

"Shut up, I'm showing you." Izzy's breath was going short. She ground him in harder. "See? He's, like, perfect. He's, like, exactly the right size."

He got hard. He couldn't stop that. He was so used to it now that he barely noticed, except that this time there was no hand on his back, no voice saying it's okay. There was just the friction, and her hips bucking up into him, and her eyes fixed on Miguel over his head.

She came fast. Her thighs slammed shut on her own hand and on him, and her whole body jerked, and she let out a high, sharp sound, almost a laugh, and then she flopped back on the pillow and held him out at arm's length, dripping.

"Your turn," she said to Miguel.

*

"Bro, okay." Miguel was already standing. "Hear me out. This is like the Romans. The Romans had a guy whose whole job was to taste the emperor's food. That's his job now. He's my food taster." Miguel shoved his shorts down.

Max had heard Miguel bring up his dick more times than he could count. Eight inches, deadass, bro, on God. It was a running bit. It hadn't prepared him. From Izzy's palm, held out over the mattress, it rose up in front of him dark and thick and veined, heavy, uncut, the head swollen half out of the skin, and it was more than twice his height. It bobbed when Miguel laughed. It smelled of sweat and soap and boy.

"Look at him look at it," Miguel said, delighted. "He's scared. Little man, it's okay. It's friendly."

Izzy handed Max over.

Miguel didn't hold him the way either of the women did. He held him the way you'd hold a remote, in his fist, around the middle, and then he laid him against the underside of his cock and wrapped his hand around both of them together.

Max was pinned. Hot skin on his front, the thick vein along the bottom of the shaft throbbing against his chest, Miguel's palm crushing him in from behind. Then Miguel started to stroke.

He went up and down the length of it in Miguel's grip, dragged along with every stroke, his face scraping up the shaft and onto the slick head and down again. The skin was hot and tight and smelled stronger the higher he went, salt and musk and that sharp, sticky, bleachy smell from the slit at the top, which was already wet. Every upstroke, Miguel's fist smeared him through it.

"Oh, bro," Miguel said. Izzy was laughing so hard she'd curled up on the mattress.

He did it for a while. At one point he held him up to the head of his cock and pushed his face into the slit and said, "Kiss it, bro, kiss it for luck," and Max did, because the fist around him gave him no other choice, and it was hot and salty and sticky on his lips, and Miguel threw his head back and howled.

Nobody was looking at his face. Nobody asked if he was okay. He was a punchline in a fist.

He was still hard. He hated it more than he'd hated it in weeks.

*

They fucked on the mattress with him between them.

Izzy did it. She was flat on her back, her tank top shoved up over her tits, and she took him from Miguel and laid him face down on her chest, between her tits, and said, "Leave him. He likes it in there. It's, like, his whole thing."

"Eighteen," she said, looking down at him. "'She gets somebody else and he has to watch.' Front row, butt boy."

Then she pulled Miguel down on top of her.

The world went dark and hot and heavy, and then heavier. Miguel's chest came down over Max's back, hard and lean and slick with sweat, and the gold chain dragged across him, cold for half a second and then hot. Izzy's tits pushed in on both sides. Max was a sandwich of skin: her breastbone under his face, her tits closing over his sides, Miguel's pecs crushing down on his back. There was no air. There was Axe and sweat and weed and the smell of Izzy's skin, salty, and the gold chain on his neck.

Then Miguel started to move.

Every thrust drove Miguel's chest down on him and dragged it across him. Max slid an inch up Izzy's sternum, and back, and up. The mattress bounced. Izzy's tits jiggled around him and swung together over his head. Her heart was going like crazy under his face, and Miguel's was going too, coming down through his back, two heartbeats out of time with each other, and neither one of them was for him.

"Oh my God," Izzy was saying, above him, somewhere. "Oh my God, Miguel, harder."

SLAP

Every thrust. Skin on skin, Miguel's hips against Izzy's thighs, loud in the garage.

SLAP

He got crushed flat on every one. He tried to breathe between them, the way he'd learned under Victoria's ass, in short sips when the weight lifted. But it didn't lift long enough. Miguel's sweat dripped off his chest onto Max's back and ran down his sides into Izzy's cleavage, and her sweat came up to meet it, and he was swimming in both of them, sliding, crushed, sliding. Somewhere far away, the TV was playing a car commercial. The chihuahua next door was still screaming.

He thought about Victoria's palm across his back in the steam. Her heartbeat coming down to a walk. Mama's got all of you.

Nobody had him here. He was just in the way.

"Bro, I'm gonna—"

"Not on him, idiot—"

"I'm not, I'm not, I'm—"

Miguel came with a long groan, his whole body going rigid and crushing down hard on Max for one terrible endless second. Then he collapsed. All of him. A hundred and seventy-five pounds of lanky dumb sweaty boy, lying flat on Izzy's chest, with Max between them.

"Get off," Izzy said. "You're squishing him. Get off."

Miguel rolled off with a groan and lay on his back on the black sheet, panting, staring at the half-dead LED strip.

"Bro," he said reverently, to the ceiling. "Bro. That was, like, so Roman."

*

Izzy didn't get up. She lay there with Miguel's sweat drying on her and looked at the half-dead LED strip, and then she reached over to the milk crate by the mattress and came back with a bottle of lube.

"Twenty," she said.

"Bro, what's twenty?"

"Anal insertion." She fished Max out from between her tits and squirted some lube into her palm and rolled him through it until he was slick from his hair to his feet. "It says 'don't look at me' after it. In parentheses. He wrote that."

"I didn't write any of—"

"Yo, he's literally butt plug size," Miguel said, up on one elbow, delighted all over again. "I looked it up. That's the most popular size on Amazon. Deadass."

"I can't breathe in there, Iz."

"Yeah, you can. You can breathe under Mom's ass for two hours." She rolled her eyes. "That stuff does something. You don't need, like, real air. You're tiny. You're a hamster. Anyway, your head's gonna be out. Duh."

She rolled onto her side, top knee drawn up, facing Miguel, and reached back and spread herself with one hand. With the other she brought Max down to her hole, feet first.

It was hot. That was the first thing. The second was the tightness, the rim of muscle closing around his ankles and then his calves as she pushed him in. She went carefully, more carefully than he'd expected, a quarter-inch at a time, breathing through it. She relaxed and pushed and relaxed. His knees went in. His thighs. Her inside was slick and hot and alive, clenching and releasing around his legs in long squeezes, and he could feel her pulse in it, everywhere, all over his lower body at once.

She pushed him in to the waist. She stopped there and breathed. Then she pushed again, and the rim closed over his stomach, his ribs, his chest, so tight he couldn't move his arms, until it sealed around his shoulders and stopped, his arms pinned at his sides, his head and neck sticking out of her into the dark of her crack.

"Oh," Izzy said quietly. "Oh, that's weird."

"Bro," Miguel said. "Bro. Can I see?"

"No." She clenched once around Max's shoulders, hard, testing, and let go. "He's not for you."

She lay like that for a while, on her side, scrolling one-handed, and every time a video made her laugh, the laugh came down through her and squeezed him from the shoulders to the feet. Miguel fell asleep. The water heater ticked. Max hung in her to the neck, in the dark seam of her crack, with nobody's hand on him and nobody's voice, and breathed what there was.

Then she got bored. He felt it before she said anything, a shift of her hips.

"Okay," Izzy said. "Out."

*

She reached back, pinched him by the shoulders, and pulled him out of her with a wet jolt that went through his whole body, and dropped him on the pillow without a case.

He lay there on his back. He was soaked: her sweat, Miguel's sweat, the lube, whatever had smeared on him from Miguel's fist. His ribs hurt. His back was raw where the gold chain had dragged across it. His hair was stuck flat to his head. Above him, on the mattress, Izzy had her phone out and was scrolling, one knee up, and Miguel was snoring through his mouth.

Nobody was looking at him.

He looked at the garage ceiling. A water stain. A cobweb in the corner, around a bare bulb. The water heater ticked.

In Victoria's room the curtains would be shut and the jewelry tray would be on the nightstand with the silk scarf folded in it, and she'd be lying awake. He knew she would. He knew she'd be holding her phone.

"Iz," he said.

She didn't look up. "What."

"Can I go home?" His voice cracked. He didn't care. "I want... Mama."

Izzy's thumb stopped on the screen.

She looked down at him on the pillow, and for a second something moved in her face, sharp and small and hurt, there and gone. Then she rolled her eyes, and turned back to her phone, and started typing.