Shortly after, the opposition started showing signs of falling under Mia's gruesome spell too. Unlike my sister's cohorts, who didn't have to play nearly as hard in order to win, the visiting side had to deliver at the top of their game to have a hope of keeping up, but that fragile dynamic was shattered once my sister let loose her thirtieth-or-so fart. They started tripping over their own feet, coughing uncontrollably, and even missing easy spikes as their vision started to sting with moisture. A chorus of flatulence played from my sister's ever-jiggling ass, alternating massive stomach-churning peals and wet clusters of chaotic sound like a bopping car horn. At the same time, the scorekeeping table was caught in the expanding blast zone, and soon after, we in the front row suffered too. Mia was flooding the gym at an exponential rate now, and all of us were her prisoners for the duration of the volleyball match.

            Her stink was simply unbelievable, without even the courtesy of a slow buildup. It hit like a runaway garbage truck, very nearly bowling over the entire front row. Having apparently spent most of her day curating this uniquely diabolical reek down in the grisly pits of her stomach, Mia was now showing off a new kind of muscular control, somehow less impressive than her already-superlative athletic domination. Her expert use of that perky bubble-butt, firing blast after smoky blast, put all her other training to shame. Lard, soggy meat, rotting plantlife, and the distinct essence of half-processed gut juice now characterized the entire gym's aroma.

            My lungs shriveled; my skin pricked with goose bumps; my throat clamped close as though I was having an allergic reaction. I'd sampled Mia's rectal perfumes earlier today of course, in the house and especially in the car, but it was clear now that she was saving the really powerful artillery for this moment. My eyes burned anew from the toxic air. I could've sworn there was a gentle breeze blowing through the space as well, though there was no spinning fan in sight; instead, Mia's constantly blaring asshole had more than enough power to propel the sickening atmosphere to every victim. Even the temperature rose, but more than just a temperature spike, the humidity itself changed, reminding me of the kind of terrible sticky summer days where the best defense is to take cover indoors. Only there was nowhere to run and hide, and if a single person had tried to leave, Mia would've seen to it that they respectfully returned to their seat until the final whistle was blown.

            With no other recourse, both sides of the bleachers were now in the throes of hysterical fits, some almost choking on the not-so-thin air. They squirmed and writhed, rocking around, waving their hands over their faces and hyperventilating into paper bags. Objectively, it was a serious marvel that my sister had managed to fill up this whole room like a tank with her gas, though it was hard to see it that way since I was on the front lines. One might think tear gas grenades had been dispensed throughout, because there wasn't a dry eye left in the house. The girls on the court were experiencing the worst of it, and I noticed several in the corners, quietly heaving into buckets. Only a handful of the players were still engaged in the game at all, though they were too meek and addled with nausea to participate much other than sprawling on the floor, if only due to fear that they'd be punished with an even mealier stench for straying too far.

            Throughout all this developing mania, the one and only person unaffected by the universal stink-bomb was my sister herself. She carried right on, charging between the prone forms of her teammates, and smacking the volleyball with monstrous force, though there was no one else to plausibly oppose her, let alone even chase down the ball. The referees had gone out of commission too, hunching on the floor and only continuing to call the next point when Mia started walking toward them with her fists clenched into lethal weapons. They'd seen how hard she could smack that volleyball, and had already several times been forced to replace the object after Mia punctured it with repeated sonic-boom strikes.

            She was smothering us all alive. There's no other word for it.

            Mia had grown at least another inch taller during the course of this week, and while that might not seem like much, that size increase evidently resulted in a substantial uptick in her farting clout. The mist was balmier and more tangible, the smell richer and more noxious than ever before. When at last the final point was scored, the last game of the match having obviously been won without the opponent even touching the ball once, Mia cheered for herself. She pumped her fists and jumped up and down, quaking the floor again. Her victorious battle cry rebounded through the room, though as it arrived to our ears through an almost-hallucinatory fecal haze, it seemed more like a mirage: a siren calling to us through the pea-soup fog. My triumphant little sister, soaked in self-satisfied sweat, planted her feet in a statuesque pose with her powerful hands on her bronzed wide-set hips and her black ponytail tossed over one shoulder. She had won the match for the school, though to be clear, everyone present was an absolute loser except for Mia. I gazed at her, cock-eyed, through the rippling waves of fart-induced distortion, like looking down highway blacktop on a scorching day, and saw her existing firmly and terrifyingly in her element. Mia relished every instant of this.

            "IN... YOUR... FACES!" she cackled at the other team, which I think she intended in more than one meaning. Mia approached the opposition's bench, where the girls sat in a dizzy line, crying and shivering from sickness, and pointed at each of them in turn, booming with laughter all the while. Then, just to add insult to grievous nasal injury, the dark-haired demi-goddess turned around, much like she'd done to me, so her ass faced the lot of them, and then she side-stepped along the line while emitting a fresh, sharply acrid flow of taint-scented air directly into each of their faces like a running faucet through the filter of her damp salty booty-shorts. The few players who'd managed to hold on this long now finally fell to the floor, some upchucking but a few just softly pleading through the tears for permission to leave the gym. But per usual, my sister didn't let a soul escape, not until she'd cleaned herself up in the locker room, gathered her belongings, and departed first, much in the way of a queen. Which, assuredly, my gassy giantess sister had now become.