Victory Lap Giantess/Shrinking & Farts chapter 7 by maximally

The dealer’s hall swallowed them whole the second they cleared the contest staging area. Fluorescent strips overhead turned every aisle into a long, bright canyon of folding tables, cardboard cutouts, and banners that swayed whenever someone with enough mass walked past. Xóchitl had that mass. She moved at the center of a slow, jostling orbit of phones and cameras, still in the white leotard that had just won her first place, the short red skirt flaring and snapping with every step so that the black thong underneath kept flashing like a warning light. The gold-painted plastic moon trophy was tucked under one arm. Her free hand kept drifting back to hitch the skirt lower, which only made the leotard dig deeper between her cheeks and pull the already-strained fabric tighter across her belly and the heavy underside of her tits.

Max was still sealed under the crotch panel. The leotard’s thin white material had gone translucent with sweat in the crease; every time she took a step the two cheeks flexed and the fabric shifted a quarter-inch, grinding his face along the slick, puckered ring that had been blasting him since the contest. The last silent fart still clung to everything down there—hot, wet, and thick with the leftover mole and beans from breakfast. It had soaked into the fabric and into his hair. Every time she laughed at something a stranger said, the vibration traveled straight down her spine and through the meat of her ass into his skull.

“Hold still, mijo,” she muttered under her breath, not really talking to him. A cluster of three Sailor Scouts and a tall guy in a cheap Tuxedo Mask jacket had stopped her for a picture. She planted her boots, tilted her hips so the skirt rode up on purpose, and flashed the peace sign. The phones clicked. Someone whistled. Max felt the cheeks squeeze once, hard, and a fresh ribbon of warm air pushed out around the fabric’s edge and washed over his face. It was quieter than the contest blast but no less dense; the sulfur note had mellowed into something sweeter and heavier, like the beans had kept fermenting while she posed.

Lillian stayed close on her left, still in the red Sailor Mars skirt that barely cleared the bottom of her own ass. She kept one hand on Xóchitl’s elbow like she was guiding a float in a parade and used the other to wave people in. “Get the trophy in frame! Get the trophy—yes, lower, get the whole ass in there. That’s the shot.” Cindy, green top and all, was already two tables ahead filming vertical. Blaise hung back half a step, tuxedo jacket open, looking like he was trying to decide whether to intervene or simply become a different person for the rest of the afternoon.

They passed a table of resin figures. Xóchitl slowed. A life-sized cardboard Sailor Moon stood at the end of the row, the classic slender version: long blonde twin tails, flat chest under the white top, narrow waist, and a skirt that would have looked short on someone half Xóchitl’s size. The cutout’s hips were barely wider than the table it was propped against. Xóchitl stopped in front of it, tilted her head, and gave the cardboard a long, unimpressed once-over. The real costume on her body creaked when she shifted her weight. The leotard’s leg openings had ridden so high that the soft inner curve of each cheek was visible from the side; the cardboard Moon had no such curve.

“Ay, pobrecita,” Xóchitl said, loud enough for the table’s vendor to hear. She reached out and flicked one of the cardboard twin tails with a red-gloved finger. “No meat on her. How she supposed to punish anybody looking like that? One good hip check and she snaps in half.” The vendor laughed nervously. Two girls in matching Sailor Neptune and Uranus outfits nearby turned to look, then immediately raised their phones. Xóchitl posed next to the cutout without being asked, one hand on her own hip so the difference in width was impossible to miss. The real skirt lifted again. Max’s world went briefly darker as the cheeks settled and the fabric pulled taut across his back.

They kept moving. The crowd thickened near a row of artist alleys and a big banner for a limited-edition print set. Someone in a full Power Girl costume asked for a photo with “the legendary thick Moon.” Xóchitl obliged, turned three-quarters, and planted a boot. The motion shifted everything under the leotard. The crotch panel, already stretched to its limit and slick with the mixture of her sweat and the earlier fart, gave a quiet, wet pop as one of the leg openings lost its grip on the meat of her cheek. Max felt the sudden give. His shoulders slipped. The fabric peeled away from the right side of his body, and then the whole panel sagged and he dropped.

He fell maybe six inches before he hit the edge of a convention table. The impact knocked the air out of him; a stack of glossy prints skidded sideways under his weight. He rolled once, ended on his back among the prints, and looked straight up at the underside of Xóchitl’s red skirt and the now-gaping crotch of the leotard. The black thong was still buried deep, but the white fabric had pulled completely clear of one cheek. A thin, shining strand of sweat and residual gas stretched between the fabric and her skin before it snapped.

The reaction was immediate. Phones went up. Someone shouted “wardrobe malfunction” like it was the best thing that had happened all day. Lillian’s laugh cracked across the aisle, high and delighted. “Oh my god, Abuela, you just birthed a whole dude.”

Xóchitl looked down, blinked once without her glasses, then spotted him among the prints. “Ay, pervertito,” she said, not angry, just matter-of-fact. She bent at the waist. The skirt flipped up over her lower back and the full, heavy spread of her ass filled the space above the table for a second before she reached down with both gloved hands and scooped him up. The motion made her tits swing forward inside the leotard; the top of the costume was already struggling. She straightened, held him at chest height for a moment so the nearest phones could get a clear shot of the three-inch man dangling between her red gloves, then simply dropped him into the deep, sweaty valley between her breasts.

The cleavage closed around him at once. Heat, floral lotion gone sour with sweat, and the faint lingering edge of the mole-and-bean gas that had worked its way up her body all day wrapped him from every side. Her heartbeat thudded against his left side. The leotard’s neckline pressed him down so only the top of his head and one shoulder stayed above the soft, heavy flesh. She gave her chest a small, deliberate shake to settle him, then looked up at the circle of cameras and smiled like she had planned the whole thing.

“There,” she said. “Safe. You all get your pictures. He’s my little lucky charm, see? Won me the trophy.” She patted the top of her left tit so the motion traveled through the meat and jostled him. A fresh round of shutters clicked. Lillian was already beside her, grinning so hard her eyes were nearly shut. Cindy had the phone right in Xóchitl’s face, angling down into the cleavage. Blaise had both hands over his own face.

“Put him deeper,” Lillian said, delighted. “Make him disappear. People are gonna lose their minds.”

Xóchitl obliged with another small bounce. Max sank until only the very top of his hair showed between the upper curves of her breasts. The crowd noise swelled. Someone started a chant of “thick Moon, thick Moon” that died after three repetitions when a security guard finally drifted over and politely suggested they keep moving so the aisle could breathe. Xóchitl waved at the guard with the trophy, turned, and started walking again. Every step made the cleavage flex and shift around Max; the sweat that had collected there during the contest now slicked his whole body. He could still smell the earlier fart on his own skin, mixed with the warmer, saltier scent coming off her chest. She hummed something under her breath—an old ranchera that didn’t match the convention noise at all—and kept one hand lightly cupped under her tits as if she were making sure he didn’t slip out again while she signed a couple of the prints the vendor had shoved at her.

They cleared the densest part of the dealer’s hall twenty minutes later. The trophy had acquired three phone numbers written on the base in silver marker. Xóchitl’s skirt was crooked. The leotard’s crotch panel still hung open on one side, the black thong visible every time she took a longer stride. Max stayed buried in the cleavage the whole way, rising and falling with her breath, occasionally catching a whiff of the gas that kept working its way up from lower down whenever she laughed too hard at something Lillian said.

The convention center food court was louder in a different way—trays clattering, fryer oil, the low roar of a hundred conversations bouncing off tile. They claimed a four-top near the windows. Xóchitl set the trophy in the middle of the table like a centerpiece, then finally reached into her cleavage with two fingers and fished Max out. He came up shining with sweat, hair plastered flat, the smell of her chest and the residual fart still clinging to him. She set him gently on the table between a stack of napkins and a paper boat of nachos someone had already ordered.

“There you go, mijo,” she said. “Sit. Eat something if you want. Those chips are bigger than you but you can nibble the cheese.” She patted the top of his head with one fingertip, then dropped into the plastic chair. The chair creaked. Her skirt rode up again; she didn’t fix it. The open crotch of the leotard was hidden by the table edge, but the way she settled made it clear she was still aware of the air moving across the exposed skin.

Lillian dropped into the seat across from her with a tray that held three different kinds of fried food and a large soda. Cindy slid in beside her. Blaise took the last chair, still looking faintly stunned. For a minute they just ate. Xóchitl worked through a plate of something spicy enough that the smell reached Max even from table level—peppers, onion, a thick sauce that made her belly give a low, interested gurgle halfway through the first few bites. She paused, pressed one hand under the leotard against the soft roll of her stomach, and let out a short, wet burp that she covered with the back of her glove.

“Excuse me,” she said, perfectly polite. Then she looked at the three of them. “You were arguing about that show with the orange man and the monkey earlier. Explain it to me. I keep hearing the names and none of it makes sense.”

Lillian lit up immediately. “Okay, so Dragon Ball Z. Goku is the main guy, he has spiky hair, he eats a lot, he turns into a Super Saiyan when he gets mad enough—”

“Super what?”

“Super Saiyan. His hair goes gold and he gets stronger. There’s levels. Super Saiyan, Super Saiyan 2, Super Saiyan 3—”

Cindy cut in, pointing a fry. “And the power levels are bullshit half the time. They just yell and the numbers go up. Also Vegeta is the best character and anyone who says otherwise is wrong.”

“Vegeta is a whiny little bitch who gets his ass kicked every other arc,” Lillian said. “Goku is the protagonist for a reason.”

Blaise, who had been quiet, finally spoke. “Vegeta has the better character arc. Goku is just… Goku. He shows up, he fights, he eats, he leaves his kid with someone else.”

Xóchitl listened with her chin propped on one hand, chewing slowly. Every few bites she shifted in the chair and the open leotard shifted with her; a faint, warm current of air that still carried the edge of the earlier gas drifted across the table and over Max. She didn’t seem to notice. Or she did and simply didn’t care.

“So the orange one eats and yells and his hair changes color,” she said. “And the other one is angry all the time.”

“Basically,” Lillian said. “Also there’s a cat that grants wishes if you collect balls. Don’t ask.”

Xóchitl nodded like that tracked. She looked down at Max, who was still sitting on the napkin, trying to stay out of the nacho cheese. “You know this show, pervertito? You look like you watch cartoons.”

Max cleared his throat. His voice came out smaller than usual after the morning he’d had. “I… mostly watched My Hero Academia, actually. Different show. Superheroes, but Japanese. There’s a kid who wants to be a hero even though he doesn’t have powers at first, and then he gets them, and then—”

“Oh my god." Cindy’s eyes went wide. She slapped the table hard enough to make the trophy wobble. "Oh my god. Next year. You two. Deku and Mount Lady. She can be Mount Lady in the giant form and you can be tiny Deku. People would lose their minds.”

Lillian was already laughing. “Couples cosplay? I love it. You’d have to get him a tiny green jumpsuit."

"Way ahead of you," Cindy giggled, pulling out her phone.

Max’s face went hot so fast he felt it in his ears. “We’re not— I’m not her— she’s not—”

Xóchitl watched the whole exchange with the same mild, amused expression she’d worn while they explained Super Saiyans. She reached over, picked up a single nacho chip that was bigger than Max’s torso, and set it down in front of him like she was feeding a bird. Then she looked at Lillian.

“He gets very red when you say that,” she observed. “Like the little tomatoes in my garden. You think he wants to be my boyfriend, mija?”

“I wouldn't rule it out,” Lillian said. “Especially after everything you put him through this morning.”

Xóchitl laughed, low and warm. The sound made her chest move; even from the table Max could see the way the leotard shifted. She looked down at him again, still smiling.

“Well?” she said. “Do you want to be my little Deku next year, pervertito?"

Max opened his mouth. Nothing useful came out. The nacho chip sat in front of him, greasy and enormous. Somewhere under the table Xóchitl’s belly gave another quiet, interested gurgle, and a small, warm puff of air that smelled like peppers and the long morning’s worth of trapped gas drifted up past the edge of the table and across his face. She didn’t apologize this time. She just watched him, chin still propped on her hand, waiting to see what he would say.