A Closer Look Shrunken First Semester: Teacher's Pet chapter 2 by maximally

She glanced once at the bed, once at the nightstand of little molded men, and then back at the notebook, as if the notebook could still win.

 

"You are not a guest," Veronica said. "You are evidence. You will stay in this room until I determine whether you are also a subject. If you run, I will find you with a vacuum, and the report will not be kind." She set two fingers on the desk on either side of him, a cage that wasn't quite touching. "Do I make myself clear?"

 

Max looked up the cliff of her shirt, past the glasses, at a face that was still doing composure and already losing. "Y-yeah. Crystal."

 

"Good." She exhaled through her nose. It almost sounded like relief. "Then we can begin."

 

She said it like a protocol. 

 

"If you were dosed, there may be residue," Veronica said, already moving. "Skin. Mouth. Other points of contact. I need a closer look before I put you near anything I can't replace." She glanced at her own shirt as if it had personally offended her. "And I need you contained while I change. These are house clothes. I am not taking whatever you were swimming in last night into my lab." A beat. The professional cover thinned. "We still haven't discussed your punishment."

 

It was almost convincing. The flush in her throat was doing other work.

 

She pinched him off the blotter and set him on the bedspread. The fabric was a field of dark cotton hills. From three inches, the mattress might as well have been a continent. Max sat there cupping himself again, which felt even stupider on a bed.

 

"Stay."

 

Unbuttoning the shirt took effort. Max had seen how tightly it clung to her chest from across a lecture hall; up close it was a structural problem. Each button gave with a small, strained pop. When she finally peeled the garment off, the smell in the room thickened—trapped heat rolling out of cotton, a day's worth of clean sweat that had nowhere to go. Her bra followed. That took effort too. Then her breasts were just there: massive, full, visibly dewed along the undersides, nipples the size of quarters and already tight.

 

Max's mouth went dry. His body, traitor that it was, took a position on the subject.

 

Veronica caught that. Of course she did. For a second the chemist was still in the room, watching a reaction. Then the chemist lost.

 

"Like what you see?" The coo didn't suit her. It sounded like a line stolen from one of the spines on the desk.

 

"Y-yeah," Max said, because lying felt more dangerous than the truth, and because he was eighteen and had never been this close to a woman who was real.

 

"Good." She turned around and worked the skirt down over her hips. Stockings. Underwear. The view from the bed was an eclipse: a big, bouncy, dark-skinned ass, the cleft already shining faintly, a thatch of hair where the cheeks met. She looked back over her shoulder. "How about a closer look?"

 

"W-wait— you said residue, you said—"

 

She didn't wait.

 

The giant dorm mother sat down on him.

 

It probably would have felt more pleasant at regular size. At three inches it was a one-woman avalanche—an overwhelming barrage of pressure, heat, and, most of all, smell. Warm, soft, slightly sweaty flesh sealed over him in folds. The crack was a humid canyon. Her weight wasn't even all of it; it was the way the cheeks settled, searched, and found the shape of him like they had been waiting for a missing piece. Air became a rumor. What replaced it was skin-musk, unwashed-sweet at the edges, and a deeper funk living in the dark where her ass had been sitting in that tight skirt all morning.

 

"Mmm..." Veronica's voice came from a long way above, shaky with pleasure she was no longer bothering to classify. "Max. You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this."

 

"Veronica... p-please..." Beneath her rump his voice was barely a whisper. The words puffed against a wall of flesh and went nowhere. "I... I can't breathe down here!"

 

"Oh. How inconsiderate of me." She squeezed her cheeks together even tighter. His world narrowed to heat and the slow flex of muscle under fat. "Let me give you some air."

 

BBBBBBRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPP

 

The fart hit like weather. Long, bassy, wet at the edges, a hot wind that had nowhere to go except into him. Buried under her buttocks, there was nothing he could do to escape it. It filled the pocket of space his body had made, crawled into his nose, his mouth, the corners of his eyes. After a few lungfuls he already felt like he was going to throw up—and under the nausea, humiliatingly, the same traitorous tightness that had started on the bedspread only got worse. The smell was alive. It squatted in his lungs and refused to leave.

 

"Ahh..." She bit the sound off, savoring the frantic motion of him under her ass. "That's better." A breath. The professional voice tried to climb back into her mouth and only made it halfway. "I'm afraid I wasn't entirely honest with you a few minutes ago. The punishment for entering this dormitory without a female chaperone can be expulsion. It's up to the acting dorm mother to decide whether that's necessary."

 

His face was pressed against her asshole. The pucker was huge, wrinkled, faintly tacky, hair tickling his cheeks. When it flexed, it was like watching a door consider opening. His voice came out small and muffled and still, somehow, reached her.

 

"Wh-what are you saying?"

 

Veronica grinned. He couldn't see it. He could hear it.

 

"I'm saying I've decided to handle your punishment myself. And if you can show me that you've learned your lesson, I might even consider helping you get back to normal."

 

"R-really?!" Almost unintelligible. He hated how fast he grabbed the word help.

 

"Sure." Her fingers traced the outline of her pussy somewhere above and ahead of him, a wet sound he felt more than heard. "But that's a big if."

 

"W-whatever I have to do," Max whimpered. The hangover, the fear, the smell, the fact that his cock was fatally interested in all of it—it braided into one stupid promise. "I'll do it. Please."

 

"That's the spirit." She licked her lips. He heard that too. "Here's your first test. Make me cum."

 

"C-cum?" He swallowed hard. At eighteen he'd still never even kissed a girl. Now Veronica Maxwell, dorm mother, chemistry director, hard-ass of Ventus, was expecting him to bring her to orgasm with his entire body the size of a novelty eraser.

 

"Yes." She wiggled her big, brown, sweaty booty in his tiny face. The cheeks rolled and resettled and found new ways to deny him air. "Cum. You do know girls cum too, don't you, Max?"

 

"I... y-yeah." Forming a sentence took effort he did not have. "W-well... it might be easier if you, uh... put me... y'know. Up front?"

 

Veronica chuckled. "You mean my vagina?"

 

"Uh... yeah." He winced. "Th-that."

 

The chuckle became a laugh—the same kind he'd gotten from the few girls he'd worked up the courage to ask out in high school. It landed in the same place.

 

"You really think you deserve to pleasure me like that?" A hand came back between her cheeks. Two fingers inched him closer to the colossal asshole until the pucker filled his whole vision, a dark, living manhole. "How about you focus on making me cum like this. And then, if you're really good, maybe you can work your way 'up front.'"

 

"O-okay."

 

He stared at it. It stared back, in the way a hole stares back. First time his mouth had ever been on a girl. Of course it was this. Then, trying his best not to think too hard about the circumstances, or about the fact that his only hope of returning to normal was the incredibly horny amazon currently threatening his life with her ass, he closed his eyes and started licking.

 

The taste was unlike anything he'd ever experienced, and entirely in a bad way—salt, musk, a sour animal note that had been trapped in a skirt all morning. His tongue was a ridiculous instrument. At his size her asshole was roughly the size of a manhole cover. He could hear himself working and hated the sound.

 

BBRRRAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPP

 

The second one arrived with his mouth open. He jerked back and gagged. The smell was worse than before. This one had heat and a wet sputter and a taste that followed the air in.

 

"You're not giving up that easily, are you?" Veronica sighed. The clipboard voice, ruined. "I was just getting warmed up."

 

"N-no!" He forced himself back against the rancid hole because the alternative was failing the only test anyone had offered him since he'd woken up the size of a toy. "S-sorry, Veronica!"

 

He racked his brain for everything he'd learned about pleasing women from an extensive and deeply unhelpful browsing history. None of it had starred a three-inch guy, or a sphincter that could have swallowed a fist. His tongue was already getting sore. Under him—around him—her hips rolled in small, searching increments, and he could feel how little of her this was actually reaching.

 

"I'm not sure this is working." She shook her head. A hand came back again. "Maybe you need a little... motivation."

 

"W-wait!" Her fingers wrapped him. She was not lifting him out. She was feeding him in. "I'm good! You don't have to—"

 

"But I want to," said Veronica, and forced his head up into her anus.

 

Hell was warm, and slimy, and had a pulse. The ring of muscle yielded the way a mouth yields: reluctant, then greedy. It wrapped his head first — a wet, flexing collar that sealed around his ears and shut the bedroom out. Her taste was in his eyes. Then his shoulders went, dragged by a slow swallow he could feel in his teeth. Then his chest, the slime painting him in a coat that would not wipe off. Foul-smelling darkness closed. The smell stopped being a smell and became the medium he lived in: old musk, a sour intestinal heat, the morning's first experiments still living in the walls. Every clench dragged him deeper. Every attempt to brace only gave her something to pull. He got a surge of unshakeable dread, the stupid cartoon thought that the hole had a mind of its own and that the mind was hungry.

 

His legs went last. For a second his feet kicked air and the comparatively clean bedroom. Then they didn't.

 

Within a few seconds he was completely entombed.

 

Above him, Veronica remained unimpressed.

 

After a lifetime of exclusively getting off by herself—and years of comics in which tiny men knew what they were doing—his first attempt at ass-play was thoroughly underwhelming. The struggles were better than the licking. Not by enough. She rolled her hips, chasing a feeling the books had promised, and found only a frantic little shape that didn't know how to be used.

 

"Max." She scowled at the empty room. "Are you trying to fail this test?"

 

"P-please..." His resolve was going. Every attempt to free himself seemed to pull him deeper into the horny amazon's rectum. Velvet-slick walls flexed and dragged. A slow, ugly gurgle moved past him like weather in a cave. "Veronica, I..."

 

The struggles ceased. Not because he'd decided to. Because there was no more decision left in him.

 

Veronica rolled her eyes.

 

She had hoped to get at least one good orgasm out of her first live shrunken plaything. What she'd gotten was pathetic. Interesting, still—the fact of him, the fact that he was in there, the fact that she could feel the outline of a person where her toys had only ever been plastic—but pathetic.

 

She wrote that down later. She did not write it down now.

 

When she finally pulled him out, it was not because he had passed.

 

It was because her gut had other plans.

 

She pinched him free of the slime and walked, still naked, into the bathroom. Max hung from her fingers dripping, eyes streaming, the bedroom air almost cold after the inside of her. Tile. Chrome. The bowl opening under him like a white well.

 

She dropped him in.

 

The water hit first — cold, chemical, a slap after the heat. Then the smell of the bowl mixed with what was still on him. He treaded, coughing, hair plastered to his skull.

 

Veronica sat.

 

"Good news and bad news," she said, settling her weight on the seat so the ring of porcelain framed him. "Good news: you're still alive. After an hour in there, that is data. Bad news:" Her stomach gurgled, loud enough to ring off the tile. "I have to go. And you are in the way."

 

"W-wait—"

 

She didn't wait. What came down was a log that, at his scale, was architecture — heat, weight, the particular sour of a body that had been holding since last night. It hit the water beside him hard enough to throw a wave over his head. He came up sputtering.

 

"Veronica—!"

 

"Don't splash." Faculty voice, ruined by strain. Another push. Another drop. The bowl became a weather system. "You wanted help. Help starts with you not being evidence I have to explain to a plumber."

 

He swam for the side. Her heel, huge on the tile outside his world, didn't move. When she reached down it was two fingers again, plucking him out of the filth by the torso the way she had plucked him off the table.

 

She held him over the bowl. The chrome handle filled his vision.

 

"Now," she said. "We talk about the rest of your Saturday."

 

He hung there dripping toilet water and her. "P-please don't—"

 

"Flush you?" A tilt of the head. "That is still on the table. Discretion includes disposal." She let him see the handle. "Alternatively. You make a useful test subject. A few experiments I've been running in my spare time. Nothing major."

 

"A test subject?!" Treading air, eyes wide. "F-for what?"

 

"A few experiments I've been running in my spare time." She smiled. The smile belonged on the woman who had photographed him next to a ruler. "Nothing major."

 

He risked one more question because the alternative was drowning in her toilet while he still had a mouth. "A-and then you'll help me get back to normal?"

 

"Maybe." A shrug. The chemist again, bargaining with better leverage than Student Conduct. "Alternatively, I could just flush you. Evidence disposal is also discretion."

 

Max went still. Cold, and the other kind. Until now he had been able to keep a sliver of the morning's stupid hope alive: she was Minerva, she was smart, smart people fixed things. The idea of being the subject of Veronica Maxwell's kinky science experiments was starting to sound more like a death sentence than a second chance. The actual death sentence was the chrome handle above the bowl.

 

"I..." He let out a long breath that made ripples he was no longer in the water to make. "Alright. Fine. I'll do it."

 

"Good." She dangled him while the toilet water ran off his legs and onto the bathmat. For a moment she just looked at him: shivering, filthy with her, still inexplicably hard, still alive. Something pleased and proprietary moved through her face and did not bother hiding.

 

"You know," Veronica said, "something tells me this is the start of a very productive relationship."

 

She did not put him down on a towel and let him be a person for a while. She rinsed him under the tap just long enough that he wouldn't drip on her clothes, patted him off with a square of toilet paper that felt like sandpaper, and then, still naked, walked back into the bedroom with him pinched between two fingers like a specimen she had already decided not to file.

 

"Storage," she said, as if he had asked. "I have breakfast. Then I have hours of work I did not schedule around a poisoning. You are not sitting on my desk in the dining hall, and you are not staying in this room unsupervised."

 

She stepped into fresh underwear first — black, practical, tighter than the ones on the floor — and opened the waistband with her thumbs. The instruction, such as it was, was the flex of her other hand toward the cleft of her ass.

 

"In."

 

"Veronica—"

 

"In, or I revise the flush conversation."

 

He went in.

 

Going in dressed was different from being fed in bare. The crack was already wet from the morning. Her cheeks took him like a habit they had decided to have. The pucker kissed his face, huge and wrinkled and still faintly slick, and then the underwear snapped and the world became nylon and heat and the grind of her stride.