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My parents kept working feverishly in the background, sensing too that we were about to get bombarded again. They set down the first plates of food, which Mia began scarfing, then went right back to prepping the next heap before she could complain. Just as I crouched to work on my sister's legs, putting me even closer to the hellish epicenter tucked away in those shorts and between her bubble cheeks, I heard the preliminary intestinal groans: like the first quiet pops of a soon-to-be epic fireworks extravaganza. For an instant I hesitated, wondering if I could run off to the bathroom to rinse out the towel and put even a little more distance between myself and Mia's oven-like bowel-minted vapor.


But that second of pause was all it took to tick off my sister. She sighed with disappointment, then reached under the table and grabbed me by my hair like an unruly dog, and with a gentle tug, forced me to squat with my head bowed right between her tanned uber-strong thighs. The grungy scent of her workout became most apparent here while so near to her upper quads, and of course that deep crack lubricated by so many salty droplets of her hardest effort, but these nose-wrinkling odors would become faint memories soon, supplanted by a specter hazardous enough to rattle the walls and leave the neighbors unconscious. Mia kept on gripping my hair, then painfully squeezed for just long enough to let me know that I'd better keep swabbing up her filth, or else. Shaking before I'd even inhaled a single whiff of the next preview of foul hummus-and-lamb-scented excretion, I resumed my duty and closed my eyes for impact.


This morning for her usual mid-breakfast flare-up, Mia chose not to go for a slow release like a series of blown raspberries, but instead went right from those warning gurgles to a full-bodied BBBBLARP more akin to cannon fire. Naturally, I was hit square in the face not only by the oppressive skin-melting heat and the literal gusty wind of her wind-breaking, but first and foremost, by the abominable sense-degrading smell which quickly blanketed the whole house in more of that balmy bacterial hole pollution. It was only "thanks" to Mia's hand still possessively gripping my head that I was kept from simply falling over in a momentary blackout, though maybe a brownout would've been more appropriate under the circumstances.


By crouching down here, my head was also made the first line of defense: like a filter in a plumbing system meant to catch the most execrable substances flushed down the commode. I faithfully absorbed the gas, which could only be described as a cologne specially concocted from the grimiest essences scraped from my sister's acidic belly and subsequent anatomical tunneling. My hand kept swiping the towel on autopilot, kneading the same spot on my sister's sweaty leg over and over, though she didn't seem to mind. My current most important function was simply to sniff up as much of these putridly seasoned last-meal remnants as I could fit in my fragile respiratory system.


"Oopsie. Sorry, lil' guy, I was hoping to get that one out without you noticing, but I'm thinking maybe you might've picked up on a little of it after all," Mia crooned. "Excuse me, everybody! Oh, and Mom and Daddy? I'm super-duper hungry today, and I'm already done with this plate. Can you add more onions and hot sauce to the meat on the next one? Thaaaanks!"


I could've almost laughed at the idea of not noticing her blistering leakage, if it wasn't so depressing. Gigantic and strong as Mia had become, both physically and in terms of gastrointestinal firepower, the only thing that was absolutely impossible for her now was unleashing even a quiet toot without it making everyone nauseous in a quarter-mile radius. Unfortunately, I couldn't imagine my sister ever wanting to drop a fart again without letting it be known far and wide: she crafted those brackish buttcrack-marinated payloads like signature works of art, each one a unique and carefully-spewed burst via the dexterous manipulation of her anal musculature to enslave us with different sounds, flavors, and sensations than the last gassing.


This one was no exception, and I spent several minutes, hunched limp below my sister's chair, while her fist still gripped my hair to keep me aloft like a puppet. Blinking away the tears, I saw my parents on the ground, too, taking a "break" from preparing more starchy fuel for these wet and noisy episodes of Mia's air-ripping symphonies. They held one another and quietly convulsed, but didn't complain, and looked to me with expressions I couldn't quite read: perhaps they were willing me to hang in there, or just apologizing for ever encouraging the kind of confidence in my little sister that eventually grew her into our ruthless overlord.


When the worst of the stinker had passed, I became cogent enough to sit up straight and continue toweling my sibling's statuesque frame. Even throughout this morning's total indignity, and the esophagus poisoning that came with directly imbibing yet another posterior belch, I still couldn't help but admire the superiority of Mia's hard-earned figure. No matter what she did to me, primarily by unloading more squalid methane per-fart into my nose than a herd of cows, it was impossible to ignore that she was objectively "better" than me in so many ways, and no matter how unfair, that was just the way of the world.


Or maybe my brain had just been scrambled after tainting by all the brown-eyed sisterly miasmas porously soaking through my body on a daily basis. It was tough to say which.


"That's good enough, Hal. Thanks for being so thorough," Mia said, as if it was my choice. She loosed her grip on my scalp, allowing me to scamper pathetically out from under the table before her breakfast throne. I barely had the strength to stand, but I managed, if only because I might not be able to stay awake down there if she shot out another grease-fire cloud as a result of this hearty breakfast. "Why don't you sit next to me? Mom and Daddy, you guys too! Go ahead and taste a little if you like, though you better hurry before I finish it all. I'm not waiting up."


As Mia had no more orders for the time being, my parents and I solemnly joined her at the table. Our own appetites as usual were gone, squelched right out of us by stomach-tightening sickness after gulping up so much of her rotten sweaty-assed effluvium, so we just watched and listened to my sister slurping and chomping wild animal-style through the mountains of protein-heavy food they had prepared. No matter how insane the volume of sustenance looked at the start of any given meal, my sister always polished it off with a smile on her face and a burp on her lips, never even seeming particularly full. Just satisfied.

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