Intro: Max and the Oliveiras Giantess/Shrinking & Farts chapter 2 by maximally

This branch of "Giantess/Shrinking & Farts" is a spinoff of "Shrunken First Semester." 

The story so far:

Max, a socially awkward, nerdy college freshman at Ventus University, gets dosed with shrinking serum at a house party and wakes up three inches tall. He is found by Ursa Kolossovna, a Russian international student and wrestler who takes pity on him. Despite her intimidating size and strength, Ursa is surprisingly gentle and agrees to protect Max, though she informs him that there is no known cure for his condition.

Two days later, at a wrestling match against Lady's Mount University, Max is abducted by Ursa's biggest rival—Jordana Oliveira. Jordana then offers Ursa a deal: if Ventus wins, she'll give Max back; if LMU wins, she'll keep him. Despite Ursa's best efforts, LMU wins, and Jordana takes Max back home to Storm Valley...

*

It was an overcast Saturday morning in late August, and Max had slept badly enough to miss his old bedroom back in Sunnyvale. Around this time last year, he’d been counting down the seconds until his college move-in day and the freedom of a living space that didn’t share walls with a stepmother who still picked out his clothes and a stepsister with a bad habit of “borrowing” anything that wasn’t nailed down. Looking back now, though, he couldn’t deny that the space had offered certain amenities—like a door he could open, a bathroom he could reach without assistance, and the option of asking the person keeping him awake to shut the hell up.

Jordana and Brenda hadn’t gone to sleep until around three.

He’d had a front-row seat from the terrarium on the desk: two amazonian bodies slapping together hard enough to make the trophies rattle, Brenda’s bust dragging the sheets half off the mattress, Jordana’s ass pinning her rival-turned-girlfriend down until the bedframe groaned. Every few minutes Jordana would laugh, grind down harder, and let out a long, lazy bbbbrrrrraaaaap that rolled off the bed in a sour wave and found the air holes in his terrarium. Brenda swore, then moaned, then answered with one of her own. The air in the room went thick and filthy—wrestler sweat, cheap body spray fighting a losing battle, pussy, ass, the wet heat of two women who had been going at it since midnight and didn’t see any reason to open a window. By the time they’d finally rolled apart, Max was gasping for air. Then the snoring started. Then the sleep-farts: longer, carelessness with the volume turned up, rumbling things that soaked his lungs until they felt damp.

A faint, eggy ghost of Jordana’s weapons-grade digestive system still lingered in the enclosure when he opened his eyes. When she’d rolled over to spoon Brenda sometime after sunrise, the terrarium had caught the leftovers. Now the bed was empty, the room was quiet, and Max was awake.

He pushed himself upright on the folded washcloth that served as his bed, and worked a stiff shoulder in a small circle. Sometime during the night he’d slipped onto a crease in the old wrestling singlet beneath it — one of Jordana’s, yellowed at the seams, still holding a sour-sweet funk no amount of “occasional cleaning” had ever touched. He tugged the washcloth straight, then checked the bottle cap beside his bed. A little water remained in the bottom.

The terrarium’s walls were faintly stained from a year of airborne gifts. Across the room, the red numbers on Jordana’s alarm clock read 9:17. Saturday. He was reasonably sure.

He had started keeping a calendar on the back of a clothing tag, using a splinter of pencil lead Blaise had broken off for him. The tag had disappeared during one of Jordana’s occasional attempts at cleaning. She’d seemed genuinely surprised when he’d asked whether she’d seen it, and he’d let the matter drop before it turned into another opportunity for her to tease him.

Somewhere back at Ventus, the people he’d started college with were beginning their sophomore year. He wondered whether his old roommate still lived in the same room. Probably not. Most people got to move somewhere better eventually. Max had moved seven hours away in somebody’s gym bag.

A year later, he could still remember the bus journey to Lady’s Mount with an unpleasant clarity: the darkness, the engine vibrating through the floor, Jordana’s teammates laughing overhead while they hotboxed the whole coach with Taco Bell and post-match protein shake farts. He’d spent most of that ride pressed into the bottom of her bag, trying not to cough, trying to imagine the new life waiting in Storm Valley, and failing. For two days after shrinking, he’d had Ursa. He’d been frightened then, too, but she’d listened when he spoke, and he’d believed her when she’d promised to look after him.

He hadn’t known her long enough to learn her phone number. That particular fact still bothered him at odd moments.

Jordana had graduated in the spring. Max’s own college career had ended rather less ceremoniously, although nobody had actually informed him of it. Now they were back at her mother’s house while she applied for jobs and talked about finding an apartment with Brenda. Every so often, Max heard himself included in those plans.

“Somewhere with room for my desk,” she’d said the other night.

He stood and stretched, keeping one hand against the scratched plexiglass. Outside, Jordana’s room was its usual mixture of wrestling trophies and discarded clothes. One of Brenda’s shoes lay on its side near the bed. Her overnight bag had become a permanent fixture beneath the window. A crusty thong hung off the back of the desk chair like a flag. The singlet under his washcloth was not the only piece of Jordana’s laundry currently serving as furniture.

From downstairs came the clatter of dishes, followed by Sheila laughing at something. At least there would be breakfast.

Sheila was particular about breakfast. She had supplied the washcloth, insisted on fresh water, and once interrupted an argument with Jordana to ask whether anybody had fed him. Max had been standing on the desk at the time.

“I can tell you if I’m hungry,” he’d said.

“I know, sweetheart. But you shouldn’t have to.”

Then she’d gone back to arguing with her daughter.

The first time he’d met her, back at Christmas, he’d thought she might be his way out. Surely Jordana arriving home with a three-inch-tall person would require some explanation. Unfortunately, Jordana had already prepared one: he’d done it for her, she’d said. Some ridiculous romantic gesture. He’d even mailed himself to her dorm.

Sheila’s first reaction had been to laugh. “After all the trouble Blaise gets into, you’d think his friends would know better.”

Max hadn’t met Blaise yet. He’d looked between Sheila and Jordana, trying to work out how much of the story he was expected to confirm. Then Jordana had rested a finger against his back, and he’d confirmed enough.

Only later had he learned that Blaise was Jordana’s little sister Lillian’s best friend, that he had experiences of his own with shrinking, and that those experiences were an endless source of funny stories around this house. One time he’d been lost in Lillian’s pencil case. Another time, he’d made it as far as her swim trunks. Whatever he kept getting dosed with, it sounded like he often ended up a lot smaller than Max, too — generally, less than a centimeter — which Max suspected also did a lot to downplay him being a full three inches tall.

This was why Sheila and Lillian had heard Jordana’s explanation as something familiar. Max’s attempts to change the subject had looked like embarrassment, and all subsequent requests to investigate getting himself back to normal were always dismissed as belated regret. Complaining had sounded like part of the bit.

Over the following months, the details had stopped coming up. He was Jordana’s little guy. Everybody knew that. Unfortunately, that had not stopped everybody from borrowing him.

The months after that first Christmas had made the two days with Ursa look almost quaint. Jordana’s dorm terrarium. Dirty socks for company. Game days stuffed into the seat of her leotard “for luck.” Brenda testing how much pressure a three-inch person could take between her breasts or post-match pits, laughing when he squirmed. Then spring break: three Oliveiras, one tiny houseguest, and a family that treated shrunken guys the way other families treated a weird cousin or erratic pet. He’d gone back to LMU almost grateful for the relative solitude of Jordana’s room. Then she’d graduated, and the solitude had ended for good. 

She was laxer about the lid on his terrarium now. She was also fonder of parking him in her ass for interviews, on the theory that his struggling helped her focus. The only real downside of this new “freedom” was Lillian, who treated an unattended terrarium the way other people treated an unlocked snack cabinet.

As if summoned by the thought—

BBBRRRAAAAAAPPPPPPP

The sound hit the plexiglass like a padded drum. A hot, sour wave shoved through the air holes a half-second later, thick enough to taste: last night’s leftovers, morning yogurt, bean dip that had no business surviving until breakfast, whatever Lillian’s stomach did when it first woke up and decided the rest of the house should know about it. The washcloth went damp. Max gagged, coughed, and still caught a second, wetter ppprrbbt that fogged the nearest air hole.

He jumped. Then he looked up.

A nail tapped against the terrarium, unnecessarily, given the announcement.

“Wakey wakey, Max!”

Lillian stood over the desk in neon pink yoga pants and a Sailor Moon crop top, her long black hair still untidy from sleep. Eighteen, six-three, two-thirty, emerald eyes like her sister’s and the family hips that made some doorways a non-starter. She was carrying a saucer in one hand. The other was still idly adjusting the waistband cutting into her muffin top. The yoga pants had been hiked up over the rim of the enclosure when she bent, and her ass threw a soft, ridiculous shadow across his washcloth — two pale shelves fighting neon pink fabric, a darker sweat line down the crack, a faint damp spot where she’d been sitting. 

“You look like shit,” she informed him.

“Good morning to you, too.”

“Late night?”

He glanced toward the bed, then at the air still wobbling faintly above the vents.

“Right.” Her grin widened. “Stupid question.” She patted her stomach as it gurgled, pleased with herself. “Sounded like J and B were goin’ at it pretty hot and heavy. I could hear J ripping ass through the wall. You’re welcome for the alarm clock, by the way. Mom says if I don’t get you up, nobody does.”

“I’ll be sure to write her a thank-you note.”

She set the saucer on the desk and lifted the ventilated lid. A piece of scrambled egg and a small corner of toast waited on the plate. Fresh air should have rushed in. Instead Max got a second, softer roll of her morning funk sliding down over the rim, warm as breath.

“Mom says you need to eat something.”

“Thanks.”

“And she says to tell J that if she brings Brenda over again tonight, they can wash their own sheets.”

“I’ll try to work that into the conversation.”

Lillian laughed and pinched off a manageable piece of toast for him. Max stepped forward to take it before she could decide to feed him herself. Her fingertip was warm and faintly slick. He pretended not to notice.

He also pretended not to notice the rest of her, which was harder. The crop top had ridden up. The outline of her nipples showed through the cheap print. The yoga pants were losing a long, wet argument with her ass. He was three inches tall and nineteen and a virgin, and Lillian leaning over the desk made the water in his bottle cap tremble. Attraction and irritation arrived together, as they usually did, and neither one canceled the other. His body had opinions about the smell still hanging in the terrarium. He hated those opinions. They did not leave.

“Where are they, anyway?”

“Breakfast with Ariadne. Then the gym, I think.” She checked her phone. “Unless Brenda talks her into doing something else.”

There was a slight flattening of her voice at Brenda’s name. Max had noticed it before. Lillian was still getting used to sharing her sister with somebody she hadn’t particularly liked to begin with. Personally, he considered Brenda’s ability to occupy Jordana’s attention one of her better qualities.

“You know,” Lillian added, looking from him to the empty bed, “you really should’ve researched the sleeping arrangements before mailing yourself here.”

Max stopped chewing.

She was smiling. Waiting for him to say something sarcastic. The yoga pants creaked as she leaned her hip against the desk. From this angle he could see the deep crease where the spandex fought her cheeks, and the darker line of sweat along it.

He swallowed. “I’ll put that in my review.”

“There he is.”

She seemed pleased with herself, as though she’d successfully cheered him up.

Her stomach growled again, lower this time. She glanced down at him, eyes bright.

“Want a close-up for the next one? We’ve probably got a couple hours before they get back.” She slapped the shelf of her ass; the sound jumped around the trophies and a warm puff of leftover funk rolled over the open lid. “C’mon. I can feel it coming.”

“I think I’m gonna have to pass.”

“You keep saying you think you’re good. Makes me think you’re lying.”

“Lillian.”

She hooked a thumb in the waistband and peeled the pink down just far enough to flash lace and pale cheek, then thought better of it when footsteps hit the hall. “Fine, your loss.” The pants snapped back. She straightened, only slightly disappointed. “Anyway, look who’s here.”

A second figure appeared in the doorway.

Blaise wore gray sweatpants, slides, and a faded red My Hero Academia shirt. He was as tall as Lillian and considerably less likely to make Max want to back away from the edge of the terrarium. His wavy black hair looked as though he’d made one unsuccessful attempt to flatten it.

“Hey, Max.”

“Hey.”

Blaise approached the desk, wrinkled his nose, and surveyed the room.

“Ugh… Lil, was that you?”

“Guilty,” Lillian said, biting her lip. She gave her ass a little bounce that made the desk creak. “How does it smell? Be honest. I want notes.”

“How do you think it smells?” He glanced between the terrarium and his best friend, whose ass currently eclipsed half the desk, and chuckled the way he always did when he didn’t want to pick a fight he would lose. “Bad. Very bad.”

“Everyone’s a critic.” She tapped a nail on the glass. “What do you think, Max?”

Max looked at Blaise. Blaise was, on most mornings, the one regular-sized person in his life who did not treat him like a sentient air freshener. That was worth something.

“I think I’m gonna have to agree with Blaise on this one,” Max said. “Not good. Like, really not good.”

“Give him a break, Lil.” Blaise’s ears had gone a little pink. His eyes lingered a beat too long on the yoga pants anyway. Max didn’t miss it. “I’m sure he’s still drying out from your mom’s pool party.”

“Yeah,” Max said.

Of all the pranks Lillian had played on him to date, she’d really outdone herself the previous weekend — slipping him into the back of Sheila’s bikini right before her friends showed up for sunning, swimming, and day-drinking. Trapped between Sheila’s sunbaked cheeks, he’d spent hours in a sauna of sweat, coconut oil, and the lingering aftermath of her pre-pool bean-dip binge. When she’d finally noticed him during a cannonball contest, she’d mistaken the screaming for enthusiasm and rewarded his “forwardness” by leaving him wedged there the rest of the weekend. Performance anxiety, she’d called it, waving off his protests with a lazy slap to her own hip. By Monday he’d smelled like a Brazilian landfill.

“I think I’m good,” Max added.

“You keep saying that.” Lillian’s stomach issued another ominous gurgle. She turned toward the door, already bouncing. “Brb.”

The yoga pants squeaked on the way out. Her ass moved like twin waterbeds that had somewhere to be.

Blaise watched the doorway, then pulled Jordana’s desk chair around and sat. The change brought his face closer to Max’s level. He still wrinkled his nose, but he didn’t comment again.

“Does Jordana know what a laundry basket is?” he asked, nodding at the floor.

“She has three,” Max said, because Lillian wasn’t there to say it. “It’s a complicated system.”

“What’s the system?”

“If it’s on the floor, don’t touch it.”

“And if it’s in a basket?”

“Also don’t touch it.”

Blaise laughed. He slid the saucer nearer the enclosure and broke off another small piece of egg.

“Here.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Max ate. Blaise waited.

It was one of the things Max liked about him. He could be quiet without making Max feel that he was supposed to be performing. Even when the room still stank like Lillian’s digestive tract and Jordana’s overnight laundry.

“So,” Blaise said eventually, “how’d this week go?”

Max considered the question.

“Jordana had interviews Monday and Tuesday.” He did not add ‘and I was in the back of her slacks, helping her “focus.”’ Blaise could probably guess. “Sheila took me along to yoga on Wednesday. Yesterday Jordana and Brenda went clubbing.” 

“With you? You went clubbing?”

“It’s a generous description.” Again, omitting that he’d spent the whole night face to face with Jordana’s asshole.

Blaise’s mouth twitched, then he seemed to think better of smiling.

“And Lillian had me at the beach the other day,” Max added.

Blaise frowned. “You were there?”

“Apparently.”

“I didn’t see you.”

“That tracks.” Max set down the rest of his breakfast. “She had me in the back of her swimsuit.”

“Huh.” A faint smile tugged at Blaise’s mouth; his ears went pink again. Jen’s so-called friendly rivalry with Lillian was clearly still fresh. “I guess that explains why she was so dead-set on having a twerking contest…”

“Yeah.”

From downstairs came Lillian’s voice, bright and loud, followed by Jen laughing. Blaise’s eyes flicked toward the sound.

Max made himself keep going.

“Have you had a chance to talk to Zuemy?”

Blaise rubbed the back of his neck. Max had seen that gesture often enough to know he wasn’t about to hear good news.

“Nah. Sorry, dude. I keep forgetting.”

“No worries.”

The answer came out automatically. Max looked down at the washcloth, annoyed with himself for supplying it so quickly.

Blaise heard the pause that followed and, to his credit, didn’t pretend it was nothing.

“I know I’ve said that before.”

“Ten times,” Max said. Then, because he had counted, “Maybe eleven.”

Blaise winced.

“Could you set a reminder?” Max asked. “On your phone. An actual one. With a time.”

Blaise took his phone out, looked at it, and did not immediately open the reminder app.

Max waited.

“It’s not that I keep forgetting,” Blaise said, quieter. “I mean — I do. But that’s not… that’s not the whole thing.”

Max had suspected as much. Hearing it out loud still shifted something in his chest.

“Then what is the whole thing?”

Blaise glanced at the open bedroom door. Downstairs, Lillian was telling Cindy not to put the cooler on the good chair.

“Zuemy knows Lillian,” he said. “Like, actually knows her. They talk. And Jordana…” He made a face that did not need finishing. “And everybody in this house thinks you showed up because you wanted to. If I start asking questions, it isn’t just a text. It’s me saying maybe that’s not true.”

Max looked at him.

Blaise was decent. That was the problem. Decent people still got scared. Decent people still put things off until the scare felt smaller, which it never did.

“I get that,” Max said.

He did. That was also the problem.

“I’m not asking you to accuse anybody,” he added. “I’m asking you to ask whether she’s ever seen this go the other way.”

Blaise opened his mouth.

Then he glanced at the terrarium’s lid, lying on the desk between them, and at the singlet Max had slept on, and at the faint yellow film on the glass.

“Fair point.”

Max waited for him to say something else.

Blaise looked down at the phone.

“I just need to find the right time.”

It wasn’t the same as forgetting. Max supposed he could count that as progress, if he was feeling particularly generous.

“Today?”

“Blaise!”

Both of them looked toward the door.

“Come look at what Cindy brought!” Lillian called. “You’re gonna lose your mind. Jen’s rockin’ new booty shorts. You GOTTA see.”

“One second!” Blaise called back.

He turned toward Max again, but something in the conversation had already shifted. His chair rolled back an inch.

“Could I at least borrow your phone sometime?” Max asked. “To look something up?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“When?”

Blaise hesitated.

“Later? When we’re not about to go?”

Max glanced at the unmade bed. At Brenda’s shoe. At the thong on the chair.

“Before Jordana gets back?”

“Blaise!”

“Coming!”

Blaise stood. “I’ll see what I can do.”

He held out a finger for a fist bump.

Max looked at it for a moment, then tapped his fist against the knuckle. Blaise’s skin still smelled faintly of Jen’s vanilla perfume, under a leftover ribbon of Lillian.

“Hang in there, dude.”

“I’ll try.”

Blaise lingered just long enough to seem as though he might say something more. Then Lillian called his name again, and he headed for the door.

“Maybe I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah,” Max said.

Blaise was already halfway down the hall.

“It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

Downstairs, someone protested as Lillian tried to get a bag away from Cindy. Blaise laughed at something Max couldn’t quite hear. Yoga pants squeaked. Somebody mentioned bean dip.

Max picked up the rest of his toast, brushed the crumbs from his washcloth, and settled against the wall of the terrarium. Then, the bedroom door began to open again.