Pathetically, I was actually glad to have this required errand, because it would let me put a little more distance between myself and that noxious firing-ready asshole of Mia’s before the first scalding hot-sauce toot could smoke out and permeate the room in a wreath of fiery air just as heavily peppered as my sister’s digestive tract was soon to be, if she insisted on adding so much spice to this already fat-drenched protein-enhanced “snack.” Of course, the potency of even her least-juicy fart had the potential to expand with such ferocity, boiling the air and decaying everyone’s nostrils from that biblically-hellish funk, that I wouldn’t be able to escape it even by sprinting to the opposite corner of the mall. No one could truly outrun Mia’s moist plump-sounding flatulence, not even someone like me who got a terrified adrenaline rush just from hearing the slightest gurgle from her washboard tummy, though thanks to my betrayal of my fellow sniffing victims, nobody could even attempt to flee now.
I took my time at the taco bar in order to prolong my distance from the center of the food court, with my back to Mia. It made me too anxious to look up and see the bug-eyed dread in the faces of the workers, so instead I focused on painstakingly creating each taco ingredient-by-ingredient, doing my best not to think about how each individual meat, cheese, and stickily-zesty sauce would smell when gassed out her back end, following its revenant transformation into something far more sinister, diabolically-salty, and redolent of an uncleaned animal cage. Even from across the room, I heard the first ugly musical note of my giant sister’s anus’s squeal, followed by a much lower-pitched growl that inflated and then went off like dynamite, accompanied in equal time by a smoggy puff of anal sulfur that spread quickly across the room.
With only one “light-to-moderate” Mia-fart currently haunting the room, the stench was probably only strong enough (yet) to make most of the mall patrons lose their appetites and wonder who among them had ripped such an excoriating cloud of throat-clenching dump essence. Already I could see people grimacing, looking around in bewilderment, and putting down bites of food: a good idea since all the edible material in the hall was probably now baked-in with the flavor of organ-processed beans and feminine sphincter. The more naïve among the shoppers might’ve even believed someone in the room had accidentally “taken care of business” right there in the food court, making a deposit in someone’s pants, though these poor fools would soon discover that my sister was capable of committing more heinous sensory crimes with only that sweltering digestion-rich air alone than most humans could probably do with solid waste.
Almost immediately after, a second louder toot bubbled up and resounded heavily in the room, removing all doubt for everyone present about the culprit. Many people jumped out of their chairs, covered their mouths, and backed away in shock of the double-fart’s immersive power, realizing that they’d never smelled a butt-fired blart quite so intense, as though they’d slurped the taste of her complimentary ass-air directly through a hose plugged into Mia’s brown-eye. Still at the taco buffet, I took a deep breath of what little recognizable oxygen remained in the room while I still could, and shivered as even that final vestige was made virulently toxic with foul ghosts of dinners past from my towering sibling’s ripe portal. Shaking, but determined to stay standing, I gathered the plates of tacos up and walked back toward my sister, my stride wobbly now as though drunk, and my vision blurring with the familiar eye-watering sting.
“That’s more like it,” she congratulated me with a grin, grabbing the first two tacos off the plates before I’d even set them down, and shoveling them into her throat. “See? You’re pretty useful to have around, Hal, so long as you follow my directions. All you need is a little coaching. Now, why don’t you have a seat, right next to big sissy? You’re looking a little… pale.”
I couldn’t imagine why.
Taking a seat, I bowed my head so I wouldn’t have to see the mounting panic all around us, and focused on finding a steady survival-rate breathing pattern to endure the already-altered murky aura of the stench-spoiled room. I knew she’d purposefully timed those first two farts just to give the people around us an opportunity for confusion and disgusted contemplation of that tepid corn-flecked mist spewed from between her golden-tanned moons. She wanted them to hear it, take in the swampy aroma, and know exactly what it was they were experiencing before the real show. Because frankly, if Mia had gone whole-hog in one blubbery blind-firing festival of gastro-gunk all at once, most outsiders probably would’ve simply believed they were in the middle of a chemical-based terrorist attack, not the semi-voluntary flatulence of a single nine-foot-tall happy-go-lucky athlete. This moment, now, was peaceful self-control on Mia’s part, even though people were already coughing, mopping sweat from their faces, and yanking at the caged exits, but finding the grates impossible to budge after I’d sabotaged the lever.
When my sister finally cared to wait no longer, the launch was signaled only by a subtle smirk on her beef-oiled lips, followed by a hearty crunch of the penultimate taco on her plate, and then the food court erupted into a free-for-all of shotgunned farts that filled the space like panged bellows. One after another, my sister unleashed a repugnant orchestral-sequence of elongated noises like pig squeals and thudding single-blast wind expulsions from her hole, flooding the place up to the ceilings with gristly skin-burning pestilence. I could actually feel the pressure building in my ears as though on a plane stuck in a nosedive, and certainly many people around us lost their balance as if they too were hurtling toward doom, cowering to the ground while dry-heaving and grasping pitifully for support, all of them rendered helpless as sacrificial animals in the wake of my sister’s meaty vapors.
The shoppers banged on the gates, shrieking for help from anyone left in the hallways, but of course everyone lucky enough not to be imprisoned in the food court now had wisely sprinted off the premises before their lungs and stomach lining could be permanently eroded by Mia’s satanically-savory aromatic swirl of all her previous tummy-cooked meals. Most vivid of the airborne tastes, though, was the cloud of half-digested taco wrath which had evidently shot straight through her GI system like a missile, fuming out of her ass in record time. It was almost like my sister intended to show off how quickly she could degrade and repurpose any food she rammed down her gullet into gaseous fuel primed for sopping its putrid stink into everyone in a half-mile radius of the blast zone. In two minutes flat, half the patrons were puking into trash bins, while others had entered crazed fist-pounding frenzies at the exits, though they were too weakened by my giant sibling’s blistering cheese-cut breeze to even make a dent. A blessed few strangers had simply passed out from Mia’s taco runoff, but they’d surely have to contend with the stench again upon waking and discovering that their actual skin cells had now been imprinted with that moist toilet musk. From personal experience, I knew that it would take more than a shower to cleanse away.
Only the blissfully hungry giantess herself continued using the hall for its intended purpose, munching away at the tacos I had willfully delivered to her, thus making me an accessory to all this pungent horror, along with the broken lever still in my possession. Though more capable of withstanding her bubbly-sewage malodor simply due to hour-by-hour regular sampling of her anal air having made me marginally more immune than the average victim, even an alcoholic gets knocked on his ass if he downs too big a bottle at once. Because I was seated right next to the source, I had face-planted on the table: still conscious, but paralyzed by her onion-crud fart flavor as though I’d been tazed, drooling onto the table and rasping through steamy asshole-belches.
Though my memory hardly retained anything of what happened next in that fateful mall, I became aware at some point that I was toddling back toward the buffet, holding Mia’s empty plates, as though in a sleepwalker’s haze. Whether because my body had locked up due to my fetid surroundings, or Mia’s corruptive flatulence had finally become a physical entity, I don’t know, but I really had to force myself to take every step as though weighed down by chains. The air itself was so stifled by her anus-piped hot sauce gloom, every inhaled breath a crackling shot of briny methane, it felt somewhat like I was wading through an amorphous volume of jell-o, though “luckily,” my sister had not yet learned how to spread her farts in physical form like that. On complete autopilot I loaded up a third and God-I-hoped-final round of tacos, but I had to return to the table on my hands and knees, not out of respect for Mia (which I did have, albeit terrifyingly so) but because I now lacked the strength to walk. Through watered eyes I could see my sister above, observing me with gloating satisfaction, and all while continuing to rip short-and-long toots across the food court into the screeching mouths of her toy strangers. With my last breath, I slid the plates toward Mia, then conked out cold, or rather all too warm.
Giantess World
