I made my way up the stairs, achingly hesitant, and per usual wishing I could go anywhere except where I was headed, but unfortunately, that wasn't an option not in this house. Or should I say her house, since that's what it's become. The stairway still lightly stunk of musk and excretion, not enough to turn my stomach just yet, but a latent layer hanging as a fog here and throughout the house. It used to be that my family and I would have a period of rest in between the daily gas-cloud storms, but those repugnant vapors had become so dominant, the smell no longer vanished when Mia wasn't around; it simply got weaker, with the promise of a fresh batch coming soon.

            My "little" sister believes in rituals, especially on big game days like this one, and more so than ever before since she began her experimentally induced growth. She begins the day with a huge breakfast full of dense proteins and viscous fats, of course that my parents and I are forced to cook for her, everything from oatmeal and full omelets to sausage and stacks of bacon, often complemented with a side of beans for that extra kick. Every crumb of that is consumed, usually while the other three of us sit in tense silence, listening to my sister's lips smacking, her teeth chomping through the mush, and her stomach gurgling in preparation for its horrid duties. After coming home from school, Mia insists on a heavy snack, which I have ready for her, followed by a rub-down to prime her athletic frame. These massages started out more as requests, with whining and pleading from my towering sibling for the rest of the family to give her a hand that we eventually cowed to so she'd leave us alone, but lately, it feels more like an obligation. One way or another, she's going to use us, so it's just part of the routine now.

            Then comes dinnertime, a rather disgusting repeat of breakfast, which is not so much family time as a race for us three to put down more morsels for Mia before she can wolf them all down and process them into gaseous smog. After all that, with game time fast approaching, she has some alone time in her bedroom, which we're all too grateful for so the air can clear somewhat for a while. Eventually, however, it falls on me to remind her that it's almost time for her to utterly subjugate a bunch of her miniature peers like a pro athlete kicking around tots in sports-jammies. It's not like she'd forget on her own, as volleyball games are where Mia has complete allowance to physically break the spirits of her fellows as well as mentally and olfactorily, but I think she just likes forcing me to come to her instead of the other way around.

            I knocked on the bedroom door, gulping and praying that Mia would just come out ready for the game. Instead, I heard her clear her throat, then announce in a sing-song voice:

            "Come right in, Hal! The door's unlocked."

            Her voice, lyrical yet deep and almost sultry, arrived in the form of an invitation, but I made no mistake: I wasn't being asked. If Mia heard even one backpedaling step away from her door, and I knew she was listening, the way would swing open in a flash. Then I'd really be toast. Sighing, I let myself inside.

            I've slowly gotten used to seeing my sister at her gargantuan scale, yet each time I turn a corner or open a door in this house, I half-expect to see the old petite five-foot-two Mia, scrappy with the tight build of a gymnast, but nonetheless a cute little pushover. Now, coming close to clearing eight feet tall, she's a behemoth no matter my perspective, and when I opened the door, I was not only granted a look at my humongous larger-than-life sibling to re-confirm her power over us, I was seeing her in rather compromising state of mid-dress. Her skin-tight sunflower-yellow volleyball penny was already on, but below the waist, she was far from ready, with her underwear hanging around her meaty quads and her thumbs still hooked into her uniform's thigh-hugging black booty shorts. This pose, of course, ensured that Mia's sun-glazed, rock-hard, cellulite-ballooned ass was on full mooning display, aimed right at me. Shocked, out of instinct I start to recede and close the door behind me, but my sister cleared her throat again.

            "Don't go anywhere, little bro. I said come in, didn't I? Or am I losing my memory? And I don't like repeating myself. Close the door behind you."

            "Okay..." I mumbled, shuffling inside the space and keeping my head bowed to avoid seeing that absolute globe of a derriere. Already the strength of the familiar vile stench, last unleashed at least an hour ago, was more noticeable in her personal kingdom, and smelled just as fresh as though she'd blown protein-riddled smoke out her ass mere minutes ago.

            "Well, don't be shy," she said, still without turning around. "Come in closer. What, you're a little embarrassed? I'm only kind-of not dressed. Don't be such a fuddy-duddy."

            I sincerely doubted it made me prudish to wish my sister would stop jutting out her massive hiney in my direction, especially with the door closed, and her in no apparent hurry to pull her pants back up over her naked lower half. Indeed, she was starting to milk the situation, slowly arching her spine and sticking her bulbous behind out further and further, an inch at a time, until she probably could've balanced a drink on the back of those upturned cheeks without spilling it. Though she still hadn't covered her golden-tanned ass, both Mia's hands were fumbling needlessly with her shorts around the knees. This meant her legs were shifting her weight from one foot to the other, alternately flexing the iron musculature lurking beneath her admittedly smooth, infomercial-perfect skin; in turn, her intimidating bubble-butt was experiencing jitters of near epileptic proportions. An invisible hand may as well have been continually slapping my sister's rosy buns like a set of drums, because they just kept on trembling, practically vibrating, and sending tremors out to every surrounding inch of deceptively doughy flesh.

            I took two steps closer, following the order, but that wasn't enough.

            "I said closer, Hal. Stop screwing around and come here. I need you to help me with something."

            What part of putting on a two-piece top-and-shorts volleyball uniform could possibly require assistance? Then again, I'd begun to learn that Mia no longer asked for "help" because she actually required it. She was just exercising control, and getting stronger in it by the day. Every inch of stature she gained, every pound of muscle she acquired, was another mile of distance between our respective authorities; in direct proportion to her ascent, she was also stealing away what few rights I had before. Fearful, I listened, stepping up behind my sister, and hoping that she'd figure out how to put on her own pants within the next few seconds. Of course, I wasn't that lucky.

            "Can you get down on your knees, Hal? The drawstring on my shorts feels caught somewhere inside the waistline, and since your hands are smaller and more delicate than mine, I thought you'd have more luck fixing it," Mia explained. "I know, I know, you're so much shorter than me you should be able to do this while standing, but just to make it easier, get down now."