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My sister only tapped me with her sweat-dampened glutes before arching back to full height, but even through that fleeting contact, I could feel the sheer mass carried in those lunar ass cheeks, knowing that if Mia decided to sit down just a little further and transfer a mere portion of the current weight from her own body and the barbell into my pansy frame, I'd surely snap like a bamboo pole, and that whomping derriere would follow my prone body all the way to the ground with a deafening slam. Still, this didn't come to pass, and I sweated out my fears under the heat-radiating monument of my nine-foot sibling while she fed the beast, enduring the salted perspiring fog around me which resulted from Mia repeatedly clapping her tush hemispheres while thick sweat dripped like pork fat down the center of her odious crack valley.

Foolishly I believed I might survive this whole ordeal unscathed, just letting my head serve as a home base for my humongous sister's wobbling rump each time her broad backside descended and pulsed with strength that would put Olympic lifters to shame. But then, after Mia had performed nearly a hundred squats with no signs of stopping, I detected something more sinister cutting through the musk cloud of her saline. Accompanied by a quiet pop, a wisp of all-too-familiar anal seasoning, peppery and foul as the dung it suggested, slithered into my airways. I shivered for the first time while playing her butt-bouncer, but dared not move. Then that first warning shot was followed by a series of deafening farts like a bundle of over-inflated balloons getting punctured one after another, and with that flurry came enough eggy protein-oiled murk blasts to suffocate even an experienced plumber.

Over time I'd developed partial immunity to the weaker bouts of Mia's gas, as anyone would have to or otherwise go into a smell-riddled coma. But to receive such a kamikaze rush of that swollen rectal malodor so quickly, with my quivering head just inches below the source, I struggled to keep from coughing up a lung and then passing out cold. No longer capable of holding my seated position, I slumped back in a dead-faint, though I remained conscious, which at this moment was actually to my detriment. Laying below the high-borne arch of my growing sister's beefy quads and twerking monster cheeks granted me a little more precious space between my tortured nostrils and the puckered backdoor orifice currently expelling sufficient swampy gas to lift a hot air balloon.

It wasn't nearly enough distance to protect me, however, nor any of the other gym patrons, who'd been watching my sister's feats of strength with curiosity and amazement, but now turned and ran like they'd seen a volcano splash the first dollops of magma. Certainly the heat pumping in droves from Mia's asshole above me now was lava-like, and her system was gurgling and generating noise similar to stunted lawnmower, complete with the smoky gas puffs that left me in a brain cell-killing high. This time she didn't wait for the last bomb to settle before she unleashed another, and in a span of minutes, the whole weightlifting floor's oxygen was replaced by a pure demonic mist of sizzling excretion-tainted horror.

Here and there I detected the distorted flavors of that meaty breakfast heap my sister inhaled as a mash of protein and gristle, its memory made fiery by the hot sauce and then ghastlier yet after a toxic trip through the gunkiest portions of her intestines. But whatever respite might've been found in those mildly-appetizing flavors was extinguished by the brute-force wallop of Mia's stool scent, fibrous and sense-twisting. Powerless to crawl away, I reacted with an involuntary seizure, writhing on the floor under my sister while she carried on passing wind at regular intervals. All the while, she hadn't even flinched in her perfect squatting form. At the height of each repetition she cooed with contentment and self-pride, then dropped to another powerful crouch and pulled the ripcord again to bloat the room in yet more of her bubbly lard-and-starch-enchanted toots which echoed through the walls like a recently-hammered gong.

I don't know when my body finally found the mercy of a "brown-out," defensively falling asleep after thoroughly washing my lungs and throat in Mia's full supply of breakfast thunder. It could've been just a smell-based hallucination, which I frequently suffered from in her rank presence, but I'm pretty sure I still heard the chorus of my sister's victorious cackles, coupled with her percussive cheese-cuts, even in groggy fart-induced slumber.

When I finally came to again, the zesty sting of day-old Middle-Eastern scorch and grease-soaked breakfast beans straight from my sister's oily hole still lingered in my nostrils, and I coughed in the way of a near-drowning victim who'd just been gifted the kiss of life. Except of course any moisture I felt came not from a good Samaritan's mouth, and only from the inherently sweaty liquid-stench atmosphere still plaguing the gym with the bubbly essence of a nine-foot athlete's bowels. I'd actually hoped to awaken back in my own bedroom, perhaps after Mia decided I was too useless to lug around as her servant when I wasn't strong enough to withstand protein-thickened gas more explosive than a match dropped in a petrol line.

But I wasn't so lucky. Instead, I found myself deposited in a heap of dirty laundry and towels in the gym locker room, all of it spongy and damp with feminine saltwater and "enhanced" with the rich poison of egg-and-falafel toots. The sheer volume of pore-oozed excretion should've given the owner away, but a quick whiff of my perspired bedding told me exactly who all these articles belonged to, and I crawled meekly off the pile of Mia's used rags and clothing. Only a powerhouse of my sister's dedication, both to the workout and to producing horrendous bodily liquids with which to torment me, could actually require a mid-weightlifting session outfit swap.

Though the sour punch of Mia's sweat was still infinitely preferable to the mealy, toilet-destined dark forces she could summon out of her rump, I wasn't totally free of her worse substances even here, since I couldn't help but notice several discolored stripes down the center of her underwear which weren't stitched patterns. In case I had any doubt they were skid marks, too, the scent of fossilized shart followed me as I trudged unwillingly but necessarily for the door, reminding me too of the janitorial horrors I'd have to endure later for my regular chore of cleaning her private bathroom. I re-entered the gym floor on my knees, as I still hadn't gathered enough strength following that migraine-inducing slow knockout while my sister repeatedly squatted her bulbous steel-hard glutes into my head. Then again, Mia might go easier on me if I approached her showing some humility, so even when I felt my stamina returning, I faithfully arrived at my sister's side again on all fours like the loyal pet she treated me as.

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