Mama V's Fart Filter Shrunken First Semester: (S)Mothered chapter 4 by maximally

The farther in they went, the more Max wanted the tank to swallow him. The house was packed with people his age, mostly girls, and they looked at Victoria the way people had always looked at Victoria: surprise, envy, hunger. It got worse when one of them noticed the head between her breasts.

 

“Whoa. A real-life shrunken guy.”

 

The freshman leaning over the tank was already drunk and still somehow airbrushed. Elfin face, heavy makeup, golden-blonde hair, bright blue eyes. Short, curvy, packed into a long-sleeved pink-and-white shirt, blue booty shorts, white thigh-highs, designer sneakers she wore in every upload. Five-two of brand-new Fortuna. Size Queen Crystal — hottest, most-followed freshman on campus — in the flesh, after a senior year of watching her from a dorm chair and a first month of watching her from farther away than that.

 

It was surreal enough to be at the kegger. It was worse to be talking to her from inside his stepmother’s shirt.

 

“That’s right.” Victoria chuckled and tugged the tank down a little so Crystal could see more of the passenger. “I’m Tori. This is Max.”

 

“H-hey there.” He was nearly inaudible under the kegger. After following her since senior year he had a whole stupid sentence ready and no volume to put it in. “S-sorry, I’m sure you get this a lot, but I’ve been watching your videos since—”

 

“This is so crazy!” Crystal barely registered that he was talking, let alone the sentence. She was grinning up at Victoria. “Is it cool if I get a pic of you two?”

 

“Sure.” Victoria shrugged, grinning back. “What do you think, sweetie?”

 

“Oh.” A picture of him in his stepmom’s shirt, live to a few million people. “Maybe—”

 

Crystal already had the phone up. Victoria already stooped to get the whole chest in frame.

 

“Okay. Smile.”

 

The flash left a white hole in his vision. He sighed through it. If campus had not started talking yet, it would now. If the rest of the internet needed a minute, Crystal would not give it one.

 

“Perfect.” She uploaded, pocketed the phone, giggled. “God, you guys are, like, serious couple goals. How’d you meet?”

 

“Us?” Victoria laughed. “I’m actually his stepmom.”

 

“Huh?” Crystal squinted. “How does that work?”

 

“Well. Hmm.” Victoria started the summary — Parents’ Weekend, common room, no clothes, serum — and then a warning rumble moved through her stomach. “Oh, dear.” She scanned for a bathroom. “Hold that thought.”

 

“Mmkay.” Crystal was already on the likes. She drifted toward a knot of Fortuna girls without looking back.

 

Victoria made for the ladies’ room like the flier had a time limit on it. Max rode the bounce and tried not to think about the photo, already out of her hands and into everybody else’s.

*

The ladies’ room was empty. That was the first miracle of the night. Victoria took the stall farthest from the door, locked it, and let her shoulders drop.

 

“Phew. That was a close one, huh?”

 

FFFFFRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAABBBBBTTLLTTTTT

 

Before Max could ask what she meant, her ass answered. Lunch’s tacos had found the end of the line. The stall went septic in a few seconds — rotten egg, wet heat, the particular sour that lived in the hall bathroom in Sunnyvale after she’d cooked. History said this was the opening act. Victoria and Mexican food did not do one-and-done.

 

He coughed into the tank. “Hey. Do you, uh. Did you come in here to take a—”

 

“No, sweetie.” She shook her head. “Otherwise I’d have my shorts off.”

 

“Oh. Good.” Relief he did not bother hiding. “So what’s up?”

 

“What’s up,” she sighed, “is that I came out here to party, and now I’ve got full-blown Taco Butt.”

 

He almost smiled, which said something unflattering about the last twelve hours. Taco Butt was Izzy’s name for it, coined at the kitchen table when they were still pretending this family was normal. Two or three hours of heavy artillery after anything with cumin, onions, beans, the good cheese. Then at least one dump you did not want to share a zip code with. Victoria in a locked stall at House Diana, using the phrase like a diagnosis, was the closest thing to home he had felt since the coffee table. He was not going to be picky about where the normalcy came from. Not even if it came in dumb family slang and a cloud of egg.

 

“I guess you are exhibiting all the symptoms, now that you mention it. Shame we left my air purifier at home.”

 

“Yeah.” She caught the joke and gave it back, which was how they had always done the worst parts of living together: name it, laugh once, keep going. The purifier had been his. He had bought it sophomore year because the smell from the hall bathroom had started coming under his door the week she and Izzy moved in, and no amount of towel-stuffing had stopped it. Victoria’s method, once she found the machine, had been simple. She did not knock. She came in with a plate or a magazine or nothing, stood over the intake, aimed, and used his bedroom as a relief valve. Sometimes she said sorry. Sometimes she said he was being dramatic. Sometimes she just sighed and let go and asked him what he was watching while the filter made that strained little noise it made when it was losing.

 

He could still picture the thing on his desk in Sunnyvale. Blue plastic. A ring of dust around the grate the exact width of her stance.

 

“I guess I didn’t realize how much we’d need it,” she said.

 

FFFFFFFFRRRAAAAAAABBLLLLAAAAAABBBTTLLTT

 

The second one had more body than the first. It hit the stall tile, bounced, and came back into the tank as heat. Rotten egg. Something meatier underneath, the tacos’ beans giving up. His eyes watered. His throat tried to close. He did not let his face do the usual thing, because the next question would go worse if he looked like he was dying. Inside, it was a hurricane. He stood in it and played fine.

 

“Well. In that case, maybe we could just head back to the dorm.”

 

“I don’t know if that’s really necessary.” The smile hooked into a grin. She had that look — the one she got when a problem in his life had just become a solution in hers. “You might be onto something with the whole air purifier idea.”

 

He scowled. “You think someone around here has one?”

 

“I think,” she said, and the grin kept growing, “that I’m looking at one right now.”

 

The sentence assembled itself. He went white. “You’re joking, right?”

 

“Not at all.” She said it the way she said seatbelts and vegetables. Reasonable. Settled. “We used to do it all the time when I was modeling. There’s a runway in an hour, you start getting bubble guts, boom. Stick a couple of shrunken interns back there and you can walk the whole show without making a face. They complained less than you’d think. Some of them asked to do it again. I always thought that was a little telling.”

 

He winced. “You used to put shrunken guys up your—”

 

“Look.” Both hands on the tank. A squeeze that mashed him into cotton that was already damp from her walk and from him. The breasts closed around his ribs until breathing was a project. “I know I said I wanted to get you out of your shell tonight. I could really use your help back there instead. I’m not going to pretend it’s the most pleasant place in the world. I’ve done it before. It’s perfectly safe. Nobody gets lost. Nobody gets… stuck.” A chuckle that did not help. “Really, it’s a lot safer than being in my bra, if you think about it. No one looks in a girl’s underwear at a party unless they’re invited. And I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

 

“How?” He crossed his arms inside the fabric, or tried to. He did not have a veto. The paper in Bea’s office had settled that. He still wanted to hear what she would put on the table, if only so he could collect it later.

 

“Max.” She plucked him out. Air. Light. Her face filling the stall. A wink. “Do you trust me, or not?”

 

Accidental death. Kidnapping. Juno. Proserpina. Chaperone. He was along for whatever she wanted, and what she wanted was the back of her underwear. Cooperating was brownie points. The phrase felt unpleasantly literal.

 

“I do.”

 

“Good.” She smiled like he had passed something. “Now. In you go.”

 

No time for a second sentence. Behind her back. The other hand hooked the elastic of the green shorts and peeled them out, then the underwear with them, and he was looking down into the thing he had been trying not to stare at since he was fourteen.

 

“Whoa.”

 

From the table it had been a shape in jeans. From here it was geography. Two boulders of tan flesh, each one big enough to end him without noticing, already dewed from the walk and the stall heat. The crack between them was a canyon with no bottom he could see, just a dark, humid crease that went down and in. At the center, he knew, was the pucker that had been running the day since the coffee table — weapons-grade, taco-fed, already twitching like it knew he was here. He had always had a thing for a serious ass. He had a feeling this one would stop being a poster the second he was in it.

 

Her hands were huge and careful. Thumb and forefinger made a slot. She pressed him into the underwear first, then into the fold, then deeper, until the cheeks came back together around him and the waistband snapped home over the top like a lid.

 

Different from the bra immediately. The cleavage had been soft and embarrassing. This was soft and total. Bigger. Heavier. The smell was not a waft, it was the room. Two layers of cloth had been trapping every leak since lunch and adding the sweat she had put on crossing a packed, humid house in those shorts. Ass-sweat was thicker than boob-sweat. Salt. Musk. Egg. A sour, living heat that stayed in the fold and did not go anywhere. The skin against his face was smooth until it wasn’t — the texture change as he slid toward the hole, fine hair, a little tack from the last blast. Ten seconds on purifier duty and his head was already going loose. There was no other air. That was the point of the machine. He was the grate.

 

FFFFFFFFFFBBBBBRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAABBBBBBBBBRRRRTTLLTT

 

Her hole opened on his mouth.

 

The day’s record. Long enough that he had time to understand it was not going to stop, then longer. Loud even under two layers of party-wear, a wet bass that he felt in his teeth. The gust was hot and humid and had nowhere to go but into him — eyes, throat, lungs, the little space behind his face where thoughts were supposed to live. Egg. Beans. Something sharp and almost sweet under the rot, the specific Victoria-after-Mexican note he could have identified in a lineup. His eyes ran. His throat burned. He gagged on fabric and skin and kept gagging because there was no pull-back. When it finally quit, some stupid animal part of him was surprised to still be awake. The rest of him was more afraid of her than he had been on the table, which he had not thought was available.

 

She settled her weight, testing the seal, and a smaller aftershock leaked around his cheek.

 

prrrrrt

 

“Thanks for being such a good sport, sweetie.” The waistband got a final snap. The world went darker and closer. “Mama owes you. Big time. I mean it.”

 

She unlocked the stall like she had fixed her lipstick. The ladies’ room air hit the shorts as a rumor. Then she was walking, each step a clap of cheek around his head, and the party noise came back in pieces — bass, shouting, a crowd pulling toward the multipurpose room.

 

He was the filter now. The night had a job for him, and it was this.