Mia made herself at home seated on top of me. Those giant palms were affixed at my waist and scalp, securing me in place with her interlocked fingers. Her glutes flexed aggressively to and fro within, alternating clenched density from the left cheek to the right. This act succeeded in not only roughly massaging my own face, but also in sponging away warm beads of dribbling sweat which had run all the way down her back, dripped through her butt crack, and were now being squeezed out the bottom of the fabric toward my nose. With a contented sigh, Mia leaned back on the couch and propped her sweaty feet up on the coffee table. She effectively forgot about me for the time being, save for the occasional wiggle of her butt and accompanying giggle.

            With my face pressed into my sister’s briny workout shorts, I couldn’t see much beyond the darkness of the fabric, but I could hear well enough as the TV was flipped between channels before she settled on one of her favorite sappy teen-drama series. Then I heard the rustling of that fast food bag, and shortly after, chomping as Mia took in mighty cheekfuls of what I only assumed to be a beef-and-bean burrito: her meal of choice after a hard practice.

            I gave up fighting back after twenty minutes, when it was all-too clear I was uselessly expending energy against the weight of Mia’s mammoth corpus. Speaking was abandoned, too, as I didn’t want to have to endure the humiliation of an actual conversation carried out with my little sister while her sweaty ass cheeks were wedged into my face. Not to mention the increased risk of a sweat droplet making its way over my open lips.

            Where the hell were our parents? They were supposed to be home an hour after Mia, and we were well past that point now. I’d already had to endure an episode-and-a-half of her mushy show, not to mention that same length of time endured under the damp globes of her volleyball-trained bum. Here I was: a college graduate, made into a living seat cushion for my bratty teenage sister. Could things actually get worse, I was stupid enough to wonder?

            Obviously the universe has a sense of irony, because a minute after I considered this possibility, I noted a whiff of rancid air. The apparition of waste, for sure. That toot wasn’t even audible; it had simply crept out of Mia’s ass, through the filter of wet fabric, and clouded around my face. While unpleasant, the smell wasn’t the worst thing in the world. What worried me much more, instead, was the threat of what it warned. Because if I know my sister and the quantity of heavy foods she can put away, the aftermath is never over with just a single silent fart.

            Desperate, I renewed my efforts to fight back and wriggle out. This had to end before the real storm came through. Mia had indeed relaxed significantly since throwing me underneath her ass, but upon feeling my paltry resistance, she easily re-affirmed her queenhood and clenched her cheeks on my face, reminding me I wasn’t going anywhere until she wanted. When next those soft hills of flesh released their muscular hold and relaxed, the gentle loosening of her sphincter unleashed a blast of hot, foul air like a miniature thundercrack.

            Flummoxed by the horrid, pestilential fog resulting from Mia’s large helping of Mexican protein products, I convulsed. My coughing came in hacked spurts, stuttered by a wet wad of my sister’s shorts getting caught in my teeth. Then Mia, with obvious intention this time, took a deep breath and let rip a cloud of balmy odor which put all others she’d unleashed to shame. I suffered beneath the weight of a powerful ass that probably every boy in her school would’ve loved a piece of, and sucked down gasp after gasp of wretched, wet fart in a helpless bid for clean air.

            “See?” Mia mocked loudly. “I told you that nobody else would do this job as well as you.”

            I wallowed in my misery under my burly sister for the full two hours she promised. Her various stinks had become a chemical amalgam, resulting from Mia’s sweat leaking down her body and sopping into me, not to mention the semi-regular emissions of gaseous wind directly over my face.

            By the time our parents at last returned from work, I was too humiliated to think of saying anything to them. I know I should have, but the very idea of having to explain that my little sister had dominated me, making me into her personal seat cushion and sweat towel/fart absorber, was too much. I’d had to live it already; I couldn’t repeat it to another person.

            Not that our parents couldn’t guess how things were changing over time. It wasn’t just Mia’s increased height which made plain the shift in power dynamics under the roof. First it was just the little things: my sister serving herself first at meals, and taking extra helpings, sometimes even stealing a few bites off someone else’s plate. Our parents corrected her a few times, but the gargantuan athlete just played her sweet-and-innocent act, and got them to shut up.

            Next came the casual disregard of the house as if it was her personal locker room. Sweaty garments from practice, as well as weekend jogs and weightlifting, were left hanging all around the living room and kitchen, stinking up the place with impunity. Again, our parents complained, and Mia agreed to stop, yet she kept on doing it. Soon, the only way her revolting workout laundry got done was if someone else washed them, which our mother quietly did.

            Then my sister’s subtle command became worse in even more palpable ways. Though Mia hadn’t yet grown any additional inches since her climb to six-foot-eight, she was still filling out in other ways, namely in her musculature. Her biceps, abdomen, and especially thighs, calves, and glutes were swelling to Olympic proportion. It showed on the volleyball court, as my sister was promoted to the head offensive specialist, smacking the ball like cannon strikes over the net with such force that most players were scared to try returning it. I couldn’t blame them.

            “Hey, maybe they’d be better off in pee-wee volleyball, anyway,” Mia would often joke on the way home from matches.

            Inevitably, with the increase in her bulk, Mia had to feed the hunger with an almost all-protein diet. Chicken, fish, beans, and beef disappeared at an incredible rate into my sister’s body, burned away by her youthful metabolism, and expelled accordingly in a near-constant stream of farts. Soon, I missed when it was only the post-game musk of her sweaty pits and feet which filled the house; now, that odor was competing, and losing, to the overwhelming smog of Mia’s flatulence. The putrid essence of her hard-working sphincter was an omnipresent force in the house, detectable in almost every room I entered. It was like the place had become haunted.

            The loud and proud sounds of whoopee-cushion-like farts would echo through our house. Given the aplomb, I knew Mia was actively practicing at spraying the stench with as much volume and power as she could muster. This fact was also evidenced on the numerous occasions when my sister would come stalking out of the bathroom, and the mist of vile #2 air would cause us all to go running.

            “Sorry ‘bout that,” Mia would laugh, waving her hands to cloud the stink closer to my face. “I wouldn’t go in there for a little while, if you know what I mean. By the way, I forgot to flush, little brother, so go ahead and do that for me.”