Lillian's Favorite Toy Giantess/Shrinking & Farts chapter 3 by maximally

It was Lillian.

Of course it was Lillian.

She filled the doorway in the same neon yoga pants, phone in one hand, the other already reaching for the desk. A ripple went through her when she stopped, fabric ticking against the muffin top as if it were keeping score.

“Miss me?”

“Like a migraine.”

She grinned and held up the phone. Bean-dip breath came with it. “J says she’s going over to Brenda’s after the gym.”

Max waited.

“So you’re coming with us.”

“Where?”

She winked. “You’ll see.”

He looked past her toward the hallway. Somewhere downstairs, Cindy was explaining something at a volume that suggested she had already been interrupted several times.

“Do I get a vote?”

“You’re always saying you’re bored.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

Lillian set a small plastic case on the desk. It had once held pencils. Now it had a row of holes in the lid, a folded scrap of cloth inside, and a faded sticker that Jordana had unsuccessfully tried to peel off.

Max recognized it immediately. It was the respectable option. The one you showed people if your mother had used the words fresh air.

“Come on,” Lillian said. “Mom says you could use some fresh air.”

He glanced at the case, then at her stomach, which chose that moment to announce the bean dip.

“Does she know how that works?”

“Oh, stop. You can come out when we get there.” She hooked her thumbs into the waistband anyway, peeling the yoga pants down just far enough to flash the lace of a thong and the pale shelf where the spandex had been losing all morning. Heat rolled off her. The glass began to haze. Sweat had already darkened the crack. “One more for the road. Breakfast was a crime.”

“Lillian—”

“Open wide.”

BBBRRRAAAAAAPPPPPPP

The blast hit the open lid like a padded cannon. Hot, rancid air shoved down into the enclosure — beans, burrito, yesterday’s leftovers having a reunion, the sour morning-after of a girl who treated digestion as a group activity. Max stumbled back onto the washcloth, eyes watering, the taste of it already in his throat. His knees went loose. His cock, unhelpfully, did not.

Lillian moaned, pleased, and rolled her hips against the rim until a last wet pppffft hissed across the plexiglass.

“That’s the stuff.” She glanced down at him, lower lip between her teeth. “You okay, little guy?”

“I’m—” His voice came out thin. “Fine.”

“That’s the spirit.” She did not snap the pants back up. “Everybody’s waiting.”

Her hand descended before he could ask whether she would remember the part about coming out when they arrived.

Max had learned to stop struggling once somebody picked him up. It made being carried less unpleasant, and it saved his energy for the argument he might conceivably win afterward. He steadied himself against her thumb.

She did not put him in the case.

She turned him between her fingers like a piece of candy, tugged the thong aside, and stuffed him into the damp heat of her crack with the same casual competence she used on chip bags. Warm flesh closed. The yoga pants snapped over him. Her cheeks flexed and seated him deeper.

“Comfy?” The word vibrated through her ass.

Max’s face was in the crease. It was wet. It was sour. It was, unfortunately, also soft in a way his traitorous body filed under yes. “What do you think?”

Lillian’s laugh sent tremors through both cheeks.

PPPRRRBBBBTTTTT

Point-blank. Hot. A little wet. Bean dip with a personal grudge. Max made a noise he would deny later.

“Get used to it, fart boy.” She gave her ass a playful shake that mashed him side to side. “That’s just the lobby. Wait till the feature presentation.”

She picked up the case in her other hand and headed downstairs. Every step was a jiggle. Every jiggle was a reminder. The case bumped her hip like a conscience she was ignoring.

*

Downstairs, Jen stood by the kitchen counter, her H-cup breasts and considerable curves straining against her My Hero Academia shirt and a pair of new shorts that explained Lillian’s earlier urgency. Cindy was showing Blaise something on her phone, using one finger to point and the other hand to prevent him from taking it away.

“No, look at the date. That’s the important part.”

“I am looking at the date.”

“Then why aren’t you reacting?”

“Because I don’t know what the date means.”

Cindy looked appalled.

“Ready?” Lillian asked.

Jen turned. Her gaze dropped to Lillian’s ass, then to the empty case in her hand.

“Where’s Max? Didn’t you say you were going to get him?”

“I did.” Lillian smirked and slapped her own ass. The sound jumped off the cabinets. A faint, indignant squeak came from inside the yoga pants. “Where do you think he is?”

Blaise winced. “Dude.”

“What? He’s way happier in there than he’d be upstairs.” She flexed, just to make the point. Max wheezed. “Mom said fresh air. I’m a conduit.”

Beneath her, struggling for breath in the vise-like grip of her cheeks, Max could only let out a muffled wheeze. Moments like these made him reflect on the differences between his captors. Jordana was openly sadistic, treating him like a toy to be broken—her cruelty calculated, her dominance absolute. Sheila, at least, had a maternal streak, even if it was buried under layers of teasing and gas. But Lillian? She was pure mischief, a prankster at heart who delighted in his humiliation without malice. 

Jen rolled her eyes, but a blush crept up her neck. “You’re terrible.”

“And you’re jealous,” Lillian shot back, winking.

Cindy snorted, shoving another handful of chips into her mouth. “Can we go already? Some of us have a schedule.”

“You do not have a schedule,” Jen said.

“I have a vibe.”

Blaise looked from Lillian’s yoga pants to the case and held out a hand. “At least put him in that for the car.”

“Why?”

“Lil.”

Lillian rolled her eyes, made a performance of inconvenience, and hooked two fingers under the waistband. Max came out blinking, slick, hair flattened to his skull, the kitchen air suddenly enormous and full of chip dust.

“Don’t get used to this,” she told him, and dropped him into the case. The cloth inside already smelled like the last time she’d decided “fresh air” involved her backpack. “See? Compromise.”

The lid clicked shut.

Jen leaned closer. “Can you hear us in there?”

“Unfortunately.”

Cindy laughed. Blaise did too, although he looked at the little box for a moment afterward, then at the damp print Lillian’s ass had left on the idea of the kitchen, then away again.

“Here,” he said. “I’ll take him.”

Lillian passed the case over while she searched for her keys. Max had just enough time to brace himself before the floor tilted beneath his feet.

Blaise caught the other end and leveled it.

“Sorry.”

“Still an improvement.”

Jen watched the exchange, then shifted her bag higher on her shoulder. When she brushed Blaise doing it, his ears went pink. She did not appear to notice. Or she did. Meanwhile, Lillian found her keys beneath a grocery receipt and slapped her ass again on the way past the counter, as if to clarify that the alternative transport plan was still on the table.

“Alright, losers,” she said, shooting Max another wink. “Let’s go.”

*

The drive was much as Max remembered from previous outings: Lillian singing along with the radio, Jen questioning her choice of route, Cindy supplying information nobody had requested. Blaise sat in the front passenger seat with Max’s case on his knees, occasionally turning it so he could see out the window.

It was a small thing, but Max appreciated it.

Most of his recent journeys had offered limited sightseeing. Probably because of them had been in the inside of somebody’s underwear, and a running debate about whether the windows were allowed to open. This one split the difference.

As usual, the girls hotboxed the car with cheerful commitment. Lillian’s breakfast found a second life before they left the driveway — a long, cushioned bbbbrrrraaap that made the seat creak and seeped through the holes in the lid like it had paid for a ticket. Cindy answered a challenge from the back seat with a short, sharp brrrrttttt that made Jen groan and Lillian cackle. Jen muttered that if anyone cracked a window the smell would only recirculate, then lost an argument with her own stomach and added a reluctant ppffft that she immediately blamed on the upholstery. Blaise reached for the handle once. Three voices said no. Through the holes in the lid, Max got the edited version: salt air trying to get in, bean dip refusing to leave, pop music traveling through Blaise’s knees, Lillian singing off-key hard enough that the case vibrated.

Storm Valley passed in disconnected glimpses. A woman crossing against the light with a paper cup in each hand. A guy in running shorts waiting for a truck to pass, impatient in a way that used to feel like a personality trait instead of a luxury. Somebody arguing with a parking meter while balancing two shopping bags. At a red light, a man on the sidewalk dropped his coffee and stood looking at the spreading stain like the day had just announced its theme.

Max watched until they drove away.

He used to have days like that. Bad ones that could be improved by buying another coffee. Homework. An awkward conversation. Problems that stayed inside a body that could walk away from them.

Blaise’s phone lay beside the case. Once, when the screen lit up, Max glanced at it. Blaise noticed.

“When we get there,” he said quietly.

Max nodded.

For the rest of the drive, he kept his eyes on the window.