Hands-on Testing Shrunken First Semester: Teacher's Pet chapter 3 by maximally

The next several hours were the longest of Max's life. That was not a metaphor. Time inside Veronica Maxwell's ass did not pass like time on a clock. It passed in heat, in the slow roll of her hips, in the wet cling of crack-sweat that painted him from hair to heels until he was shiny with her. It passed in digestive ticks he felt through his ribs. It passed in farts that arrived without warning and without apology, each one a weather system in a space that had no windows.

 

The first one hit in the hallway, before they even reached the stairs.

 

pppfffrrrrrraaaaaaap

 

Short. Hot. Almost polite. It still filled the sealed pocket of her underwear and had nowhere to go except into his open mouth. He gagged. She kept walking. A drop of sweat rolled off the wall of one cheek and down his back like a warm bead of grease.

 

Dining hall next. He knew it by sound: tray stacks, a hundred conversations happening at the altitude of thunder, the metallic cough of a drink machine, a laugh that could have been Zeke's if the universe had wanted to be cruel. Her cheeks clenched whenever she stood in line. When she sat, the chair groaned, and his world compressed to a dark, humid seam that smelled like the morning's experiment and the coffee she was about to drink. She ate. He felt it later as a shift in the weather around his head. Eggs. Coffee. Something peppery she had no business putting in a body that already had a captive in it.

 

BBBRRRAAAAAAAPPPPPPP

 

The first dining-hall one was a long, ugly ribbon of gas that had nowhere to go except into his face. Bass he could feel in his teeth. Heat that made his eyes water on contact. He gagged against her pucker and she crossed her legs as if she were adjusting a napkin.

 

"Don't make a scene," she murmured, so quietly he almost thought he'd imagined it. Then, after a beat, because she could not help herself: "Fascinating."

 

A second one followed before he had a breath.

 

BBBLLLRRRAAAAAAAPPPPT

 

Wetter. Egg and pepper. It left a film on his tongue. Sweat came down in sheets after that, a slow flood that soaked the nylon and turned the crack into a swamp. The underwear was a second skin around him, a sky stretched tight over a canyon. Every time she stood up, the cheeks shifted and tried to lose him; every time she remembered he was there, they locked, and his whole body folded into the dark crease like a bookmark.

 

He stopped counting after a dozen. That did not mean they stopped. They just stopped being events and started being the air. One while she talked to someone he couldn't see. One while she walked. A long sleepy one when she sat too long on a hard chair and forgot he was a person. By the time the dining hall sounds faded and the outdoor air changed the temperature of her skin by a degree he could actually feel, Max was already slipping in and out of a thin, nauseous gray, cock still traitorously interested in the same heat that was trying to kill him.

 

Chemistry building. Elevator. The particular dead quiet of a Saturday faculty floor. A keycard beep. A door. Two more farts in the time it took her to hang the lab coat on the hook, as if her body had been waiting for a lock.

 

When she finally peeled him out and dropped him on her desk, he was barely conscious. He came away stringy with sweat. The smell of her crack stayed on him like a second hangover.

 

Office air hit like a slap. It was not fresh. It was only less than what he had been breathing. He coughed until his ribs hurt and stayed on his side, cheek against a stack of ungraded problem sets that smelled like pencil lead and her hand lotion.

 

"Fascinating," Veronica said again, and this time she meant it. She had thrown a lab coat on over the same tight white shirt, glasses back on, hair only slightly less perfect than it had been in the common room. She looked like the woman from the STEM session. She also looked like a woman who had just walked across campus with a freshman in her ass and was not done being pleased about the data. "Any normal human of your size would be dead by now."

 

"D-dead?" He was still trying to get his bearings, still trying to remember what oxygen was supposed to taste like.

 

"It's simple physics, really." She shifted her hips; the chair groaned. "The human body isn't built to withstand that kind of pressure for that long. To say nothing of the smell."

 

"Oh," Max said, and coughed again. On the one hand, if she was telling the truth, he was lucky to be alive. On the other hand, he was not excited about whatever experiments she would run to find out why.

 

She had already noticed the other result. He could tell by the way her gaze dropped and stayed a second too long. The commute had not cured the betrayal. If anything, being baked in her crack for hours had made it worse. He tried to roll onto his hip. The papers stuck to his skin.

 

"In other words," she said, adjusting her glasses, "it seems like you're stronger than you look. The only question now is... just how much stronger?"

 

He winced. "W-what do you mean?"

 

"I mean it's time to run some tests."

 

She stood, scooped him, and went to the double doors behind the desk. They slid open on a private lab that did not belong in a dorm mother's Saturday: white benches, a fume hood, glassware ranked like a choir, a digital scale in the corner that looked ordinary until he understood he was about to meet it with his whole body.

 

"First things first," Veronica said, strolling toward the scale. "Pressure."

 

"W-what?"

 

Rather than answering, she stooped, placed him on the metal plate, and butt-slammed herself down on top of him.

 

The impact was biblical. Even after an hour inside her and a commute spent as a gasket, nothing prepared him for three hundred pounds arriving like a dropped safe. The plate rang. His vision went white, then red, then a smeared dark in which the only facts were weight, heat, and the enormous spread of her ass sealing the world shut. She lifted — a gasp of office air, cruel in its brevity — and sat again. And again. She was counting under her breath. He could hear it between the shocks. Two. Three. Still conscious. Four—

 

The scale gave out before he did. The plate bent. The digital display cracked into a meaningless constellation of black and silver.

 

"My, my." She stood, eyeing the ruined instrument, eyebrows up. A scientist looking at a broken tool and a result she had not budgeted for. "You really are a tough one."

 

Below the wreckage, against all odds, Max was still breathing. Just barely. "Veronica, please... I..."

 

"Don't worry." She plucked him up. His spine felt like a question. "We're almost done with the crude work."

 

The flask was waiting on a shelf as if it had been waiting for years. She took a large Erlenmeyer down with the same neatness she used on a lecture demo, tipped him in, and let him slide to the bottom. Glass walls. A circular sky. The whole thing tilted.

 

He looked up in time to see her turn, hike the lab coat, tug the underwear aside, and press her asshole over the mouth of the flask.

 

PRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPPP

 

If the scale had been designed to crush him, this was designed to take the air. Breakfast came back as climate: coffee-sour, egg-sulfur, a peppery heat that filmed the glass and then his throat. He got one clean breath and then there were no clean breaths. The fart packed the cone, fogged it, turned the world the color of bad weather. Condensation ran down the inside in greasy streaks. His knees slipped. The smell was so thick it had a taste, and the taste was so thick it had a weight.

 

"S-stop." It came out as a wheeze. His palms squeaked on the glass.

 

She did not stop. One hand held the flask sealed to her. The other had already gone between her legs. He could see it in the distorted reflection, a rhythmic private motion she was not bothering to hide now that the door was locked and the subject was in glass.

 

PPAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPPPP

 

Longer. Wetter. The flask jumped in her grip. The blast shoved him into the far curve of the glass and held him there, a three-inch man in a bottle of someone else's guts. Max's thoughts thinned to a single stupid ribbon. Part of it was I am going to die in a piece of lab equipment. Part of it, worse — louder, clearer, the thought that would follow him out of the blackout — was that this was where he really belonged.

 

"V-veronica..." He couldn't get the rest of please through the air that wasn't air.

 

She was close. He could hear it in her breathing, in the way her thighs shook the bench. The clipboard was gone. What she had instead was a live tiny in a flask and a free hand and years of pictures that had never made a sound like this.

 

BBBBBBBBBBRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPPPPP

 

"According to the math," she said, or he thought she said, voice frayed, "you should live through this." A swallow. According to her calculations she had full confidence he'd survive — albeit with a not-insignificant risk of lingering psychological damage.

 

"Ver... o-oniii—"

 

He blacked out with his face against the glass and her name still in his mouth.

 

*

 

When Max woke up, he was on the desk again. A paper towel under him this time. His head felt packed with wet cotton. Veronica looked very pleased, which was not the same thing as kind. A few labeled vials sat in a rack at her elbow. A swab in a sleeve. A note already started in that vicious handwriting.

 

"You know," she said, tapping his head with one careful finger, "you're a very interesting specimen, Max."

 

"T-thanks." He had to hunt for the words. "S-so, um... did I pass?"

 

"Pass what?"

 

"You know. The pressure plate. The glass tube. C-can you grow me back now?"

 

She actually laughed. Short. Mean. Fond, if you squinted.

 

"I said you would make a good test subject. I was right. So you are going to continue being my test subject until I am done with you." The glasses caught the overhead lights. "Do I make myself clear?"

 

"I—" He looked at the rack. At the ruined scale. At her. "Y-yeah."

 

"Good. That's better."

 

She ran a swab along his arm, his mouth, the crease behind his knee, and dropped it into a sleeve. Another vial got a scrap of the sweat still on him. She talked while she worked, half to the notebook.

 

"Whatever hit you last night is still on you. I can start an assay tonight. I will not have a complete picture tonight. Anyone who tells you they can read a custom binder off one swab is selling something." She glanced at him over the rims. "There is no antidote on my shelf with your name on it. If I am going to unmake this, I have to know what it is."

 

"How long?"

 

"Longer than you want." She capped a vial. "Shorter than a life, if you stay useful."

 

She put him back in for the walk home the same way she had put him in for breakfast. House Minerva on a Saturday evening sounded like other people's lives: a microwave, a laugh down the hall, a shower running. None of it was his.

 

Night in the crack was not the commute. It was slower. Heavier. She worked email on the bed in a tank top and let the day's last gas go without comment, a long tired bbbbrrraaaaaaap that put him under more surely than any lecture. When she slept, the walls of her ass became a climate he could almost mistake for a room.

 

He did not mistake it for home. Not yet.