Hazel Claims Her Reward Shrunken First Semester: Attack of the 200-Foot Gooner chapter 6 by maximally

 

On the heels of their most humiliating defeat in decades, the military decided to comply with Hazel’s demands — at least until they could figure out a more permanent solution to their newfound problem. Thus, shortly after the giantess had given her first public statement, several truckloads of army engineers converged on downtown San Trasero.

 

By midnight the far lawn looked less like a park and more like the first night of a disaster deployment nobody had practiced. Temporary fencing and orange traffic bases went up in a line that would not have stopped a delivery van. Evacuation buses idled on a side street with their destination boards blank, which was a polite way of saying nobody had decided where the city was supposed to go. Floodlights came on so the welders could see the stump. A portable substation started humming behind the wrecked fountain because the park’s ordinary power was not going to run a night shift. A medical tent opened on the other side of the grass for workers and for the people already walking toward her on purpose. Food trucks followed the crews, because once you admitted you were staying until morning you had to feed the people doing the staying. Officially all of it was temporary disaster relief, supposed to come down when the incident ended.

 

While this happened, the rest of humanity kept watching in horror and fascination. The idea of a giant, seemingly-invulnerable college sophomore who spent most of her time either masturbating, farting or eating people was, obviously, a lot to process — and the initial reactions to her inexplicable arrival were thoroughly mixed. As the US government tried to devise a strategy to contain her, other countries started putting together unofficial messages — territory, money, facilities, a military partnership dressed as humanitarian access — in hopes of turning her into some kind of walking superweapon. Formal offers would come later. Tonight the calculation in Washington was simpler: if she walked, she would walk into someone else’s flag, so the incentive was to keep her inside the country and in a mood that did not include another science building. At the same time, her online army was growing stronger and more vocal every minute — and many of them were now heading for San Trasero.

 

Hazel treated the arriving crews the way she treated a loading bar. They were either going to produce the replacement or they weren’t, and the difference between a press conference and a weld did not interest her. She wanted the stump rebuilt to a size she could use. Everything else — the unofficial embassy mail, the comments she still could not read, the question of whose flag she was standing on — could wait until she had something to sit on.

 

They hadn’t had time to pour a new foundation, so the welders went to work on the old stump, drilling anchors and ringing the shaft with precast highway ballast. As Hazel set to work supervising her new team of engineers with an endless stream of often contradictory orders, Max remained trapped in her ass. Even if he’d been able to get his giant captor’s attention and convince her to let him out, he had no interest in accidentally getting squashed or stepped on. Plus, after spending the last week in this very crack, he’d had a lot of time to get used to it. While Hazel’s ass was just as uncomfortable, hot and smelly as ever, it was safe — and at this point, that was the only thing he cared about.

 

A state emergency-management guy in a windbreaker stood on a truck bed and asked, through a borrowed PA, what she needed. She had already told the helicopters. He asked again anyway, because asking was the part of his job that still looked like a job. A second liaison in a different windbreaker — Max never got a last name; Hazel called him Windbreaker Two and then, by dawn, just Windbreaker — tried twice to get her to pause so the crew could check a weld. She said “in a minute” both times and meant after she came. He stopped asking her to pause and started asking the welders to work around her instead. The crew watched him do it and copied him. That was how little authority the job actually contained.

 

Around three in the morning the first visitor made it under the mesh — a guy from Riverside with a duffel, a printed sign, and a numbered paper wristband somebody had written his name on. He sat down at the ballast ring, and Hazel did not tell him to leave. Officials watching from the cordon did not treat that as proof of anything. She was already staying in the park because she wanted the work finished. What they hoped was that a managed stream of visitors would give her a reason to remain after the immediate demand had been met, so she would not go looking through occupied buildings again. After that, enforcement quietly changed from keeping everyone out to writing names on wristbands as people came in. Nobody had legalized any of this. They had simply discovered that paperwork was easier than stopping it.

 

 

By morning there was a volunteer-approach lane, a box of wristbands, a prefab block for communications and food staging, and a service corridor marked so crews could approach without crossing her usual stride. The park had swollen with new arrivals anyway. The wristband box had not been designed for the volume of people who wanted one, and the volunteers writing names could not process a forum in a single night. What the officials had hoped would be a managed stream became a crowd they had already decided not to push back, because pushing back would have meant another fight they had just lost. Hazel’s supporters now surrounded her in droves — worshiping her feet and her butt, begging her to use them as snacks and sex toys, and generally acting like some strange blend of foul con-goers and religious fanatics. This all came as a bit of a surprise to Hazel, but she found it hard to complain. If a bunch of random internet people wanted to offer themselves up to her, she wasn’t going to talk them out of it.

 

When Max shouted at an engineer, the engineer flinched, saw where the voice was coming from, and went back to the torque spec. By sunrise everyone working the cordon understood the same thing the Guard had learned: getting him out required Hazel to cooperate, and nobody had yet found a reason she would.

 

By morning, the new column was complete: thirty feet of welded steel, eight feet across, rising out of the old stump and considerably heavier than the sculpture it replaced.

 

“Alright, ma’am.” As the army engineers began to get back into their vehicles, a lone tank with a bullhorn addressed the giantess. “We’ve completed construction. Do we have your permission to vacate the area?”

 

“Sure, yeah,” said Hazel, directing them away with an absent-minded wave of her hand. “You’re free to go.”

 

“...Thank you,” came the response from the bullhorn, with a fresh note of uncertainty. As the 200-foot gooner rose to inspect her new toy, the engineers wasted no time in leaving the park — incurring a significant amount of harassment from the giantess’s supporters in the process. Soon, they were gone — and Hazel was ready to test their work.

 

“Hey there,” she said, looking the phallic sculpture up and down and licking her lips. Around her, her supporters hooted and hollered, eager to witness whatever was about to happen between their goddess and her new toy. They wouldn’t have to wait long to find out.

 

Taking a few steps forward to center herself over the Dildo, crushing several dozen hapless incels, femcels and NEETs underfoot, Hazel brought a hand to her clit and found it sopping wet from sheer anticipation. “Oh, yeah,” she breathed, curling her toes. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

 

Without further ado, the giantess crouched down and gently guided the head of the sculpture into her dripping, steamy sex. Hearing — and feeling — all of this from his prison between his captor’s cheeks, all Max could do was thank his lucky stars that she’d chosen to start with her vagina and not her asshole. Not that it would make the next few minutes any less unpleasant for him.

 

For the next thirty minutes, the whole world watched Hazel fuck the Dildo. It was headline news, albeit heavily censored, for every network and newspaper, and the internet was filled with streams and commentary. Many heralded it as the beginning of the end of the world. Others, like everyone cheering the giantess on in San Trasero, saw it as the beginning of something new — a golden age for all those who swore allegiance to the new goddess. Only time would tell the truth — although, based on Max’s last week as the giantess’s live-in assistant before her rise to power, he wasn’t terribly optimistic about the rest of the world’s prospects.

 

By now, having discovered that other governments were already circulating unofficial offers, the US government had scrapped any plans to try and stop the giantess in the short term. The area around San Trasero was being treated as a containment problem rather than a battlefield, and the people still in charge were already trying to write down what they could live with: keep her in the park if they could, keep the rest of the city functioning around whatever that required, and stop calling the next truckload of steel a temporary measure. Compared to the alternative of risking another crushing defeat or watching her walk into someone else’s flag, this had all been accepted as a necessary evil — and would be relayed to the 19-year-old walking superweapon by helicopter courier as soon as she finished gooning.

 

“Oh, f-fuck,” Hazel moaned, finally approaching a climax. “I... I...”

 

BBBRBRBRBRBBRBAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP

 

As the buck-toothed giantess lost herself in a wave of overwhelming pleasure, she lost a similar amount of control over her bowels. The only upside for those on the ground was that her stomach was empty. Then again, that wasn’t saying much. The fart that followed was the single biggest, longest, smelliest blast of gas she’d cut in several weeks — and while many of her supporters had come prepared with gas masks, even the most sophisticated filter gear on the market was no match for the resulting cloud of stink. When she regained her senses, she looked down at a lawn full of people who were no longer cheering and decided that meant they were asleep. Max could see that was only partly true. Plenty of them were out. Some were still crawling. A few had the same stillness he had recognized on the grass outside the MSC, and she reached for the nearest handful without checking which was which.

 

“Heh, whoops,” Hazel giggled, tipping that handful into her mouth. “Thorry, guyth. I’m thure you’ll get uthed to it eventhually.”

 

Max, still locked in the clench that was keeping him off the ground, did not correct her. The toy stood. The crowd did not. She settled back onto the grass as if the park were a bed she had earned.

 

“See?” she murmured, fond, almost asleep. “Told you you’d be fine.”

 

Max had survived, which, as far as Hazel was concerned, meant she had been right. He was still there to hear her say it. That was the part she would keep.