A loofah

You're alone.

You lie there on the shower floor, bound in your own tongue, heart racing. You try to unwrap yourself, but your arms are pinned, and every attempt to move just makes you roll slightly. The shower floor stretches around you like a textured plain, the drain a dark pit nearby that you pray you don't roll into.

Minutes pass. Maybe ten, maybe twenty—time feels strange at this size. You hear sounds from elsewhere in the house: footsteps, voices, the distant flush of another toilet. You try to call out, but with your tongue stretched around your body, you can barely make a sound.

Then you hear them: heavy footsteps approaching. Different from your sister's—slower, more deliberate. The bathroom door opens.

Your mother walks in.

From your position on the shower floor, you see her feet first—larger than your sister's, the nails unpainted, a slight callus on one heel. She's wearing running shoes, and as she moves into the bathroom, you catch the scent of sweat and exertion. She must have just come back from the gym.

She doesn't look down. Why would she? She has no idea her son is currently a two-inch-tall bundle of flesh on the shower floor.

You watch in mounting horror as she moves toward the toilet. Her hands go to her waistband, and she pulls down her running tights and underwear in one motion. The toilet seat creaks as she sits, and then—

The sound is immediate and catastrophic. A wet, explosive eruption that echoes through the bathroom like a thunderclap. The smell hits you a moment later, a wave of hot, fetid air that makes you gag even through your bound tongue. It goes on and on, punctuated by smaller bursts and your mother's soft grunts of relief.

"Oh god," she mutters to herself, her voice carrying easily to where you lie. "That's what I get for those protein shakes."

Another explosion. Another wave of smell. You try to close your eyes, to block it out, but you can't escape it. You're trapped, helpless, forced to witness your mother's most private moment from the worst possible vantage point.

Finally, mercifully, it stops. You hear her sigh, a long exhale of relief. But then—nothing. No sound of toilet paper unrolling. No wiping.

"Fuck it," your mother says. "I'm about to shower anyway."

She stands, and you catch a glimpse of her as she moves toward the sink—her running clothes are dark with sweat, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She's in her forties but keeps herself in good shape, though right now she looks exhausted and flushed from her run.

She washes her hands, then starts stripping off her clothes. The sports bra comes off first, dropped carelessly on the floor. Then her running tights, peeled down her legs and kicked aside.

"God, I'm disgusting," she mutters, catching sight of herself in the mirror. "And of course I'm on my period. Perfect timing."

the sweat glistening on her skin, the dark patch between her legs, the string of her tampon just visible, the residue she didn't wipe away.

She reaches for the shower knob and turns it. Water begins to spray, cold at first, then warming. It hits you like a fire hose, each droplet the size of your fist, pounding against your bound form. You roll slightly, helplessly, as the water streams around you.

Your mother stands under the spray, letting it wash over her. She sighs contentedly, running her hands through her hair. Then she reaches down, searching for something.

Her hand sweeps across the shower floor, and her fingers brush against you.

She pauses. Picks you up.

"Oh, there's the loofah," she says, holding you up to examine you in the spray. "Thought I lost this thing."

No. No no no no no.

She squeezes you experimentally, and your bound body compresses, then springs back. "Huh. Feels different. More... squishy."

She reaches for the soap dish, then frowns. "Shit. Out of soap." She looks at you—at what she thinks is a loofah. "Guess I'll just have to scrub extra hard."

She brings you to her armpit first.

The world tilts violently as her hand raises you upward, and suddenly you're pressed against the hot, damp hollow of her underarm. The smell hits you first—a thick, concentrated musk of hours-old sweat mixed with the sour tang of deodorant breaking down, overlaid with that particular acrid scent of exertion and stress hormones. It's overwhelming, suffocating, filling your nostrils and coating the back of your throat.

"God, I'm rank," your mother mutters above you, completely oblivious to your consciousness. "Really need to scrub this."

Then she starts moving you.

Her hand presses you firmly into the soft, yielding flesh of her armpit and begins scrubbing in rough, circular motions. Your bound body compresses with each pass, your elastic form flattening against her skin, then springing back as she lifts slightly before pressing again. The coils of your own tongue that bind you dig into your compressed flesh with each squeeze, creating layers of pressure and sensation that your brain struggles to process.

The texture is everything. You can feel every pore against your stretched skin, each follicle of stubble—she must have shaved yesterday, and now there's a sandpaper roughness of regrowth scraping against you. The skin itself is slick with sweat and water, hot and slightly sticky, and as she scrubs, you feel the grime and salt and accumulated filth of her workout being ground into your bound form.

She scrubs harder. "Come on, no soap means I gotta really work it," she says, her voice vibrating through her chest and into you.

Your body stretches and compresses in ways that shouldn't be possible. When she presses down, you flatten like putty, spreading across the surface of her armpit, your bound form becoming a pink smear of flesh. When she drags you in circles, your elastic body elongates in the direction of motion, stretching like taffy, before snapping back when she reverses direction. You can feel your own tongue-bindings shifting, tightening, loosening, creating a constant state of constriction and release.

The water pounds down on both of you, each droplet a hammer blow, washing away some of the sweat only for more to seep from her pores. You taste it—god, you can taste it—the salt and bitterness flooding across the stretched surface of your tongue that's wrapped around your body. Every scrub grinds more of her sweat into you, and you're absorbing it, becoming saturated with your mother's bodily fluids.

"There we go," she says with satisfaction, finally lifting you away from her armpit. You catch a glimpse of the reddened, scrubbed-clean skin before she moves you to the other side.

The second armpit is worse. This one is even more pungent, the smell sharper, more concentrated. She must favor this arm, work it harder. The stubble is slightly longer here, more abrasive, and as she scrubs you against it, you feel each hair bending and scraping across your compressed form. The sweat here is thicker, more viscous, and it clings to you in stringy residue that the water can't immediately wash away.

She scrubs for what feels like an eternity, working you in aggressive circles, occasionally dragging you up and down the length of her underarm. Your body compresses so flat at times that you feel like you're becoming two-dimensional, a pink smear of consciousness spread across her skin. Then she'll lift slightly and you'll spring back, your elastic form reasserting its three-dimensional shape, only to be flattened again.

"Okay, that's better," she finally says, and you feel a moment of relief—until she moves you downward.

She presses you against her chest, just below her collarbone, and begins scrubbing across her breasts. The flesh here is softer, more yielding, and as she scrubs, you're pressed into the curves and valleys of her body. She works you across one breast, the skin here slick with sweat and water, and you feel the texture change as she drags you over her nipple—the slightly rougher, pebbled surface of her areola, the firm nub of the nipple itself pressing into your bound form like a blunt peg.

She's not gentle. Without soap, she's compensating with pressure and friction, grinding you against her skin with enough force that you feel your elastic body deforming, molding to the contours of her breast. When she presses you into the underside, into the sweaty crease where breast meets ribcage, the smell intensifies again—a different musk, mixed with the lingering scent of her sports bra, that synthetic-fabric smell of trapped sweat and heat.

She moves you to the other breast, repeating the process. Scrubbing, grinding, pressing. Your body compresses and stretches, flattens and rebounds. You're dizzy with sensation, your consciousness fragmenting under the relentless assault of touch and smell and taste. The water continues to pound down, and you're drowning in it, in her sweat, in the surreal horror of being used as a cleaning tool by your own mother.

"Feet next," she announces, and your stomach drops.

She bends down—the world tilting sickeningly—and props one foot up on the edge of the tub. From your position, you see it coming: the sole of her foot, wrinkled and pale from the water, but still bearing the grime of her run. There's dirt in the creases, dark lines in the wrinkles of her sole, and the smell—oh god, the smell—hits you before contact does.

It's concentrated foot sweat, hours of it trapped in running shoes, mixed with the rubbery smell of her shoe insoles and something earthier, more primal. The scent is so strong it makes your eyes water, so thick you can almost see it as a visible miasma.

Then she presses you against her sole and starts scrubbing.

The texture is completely different here. The skin is thicker, tougher, with deep wrinkles and calluses that scrape against your bound form like rough terrain. She grinds you into her heel first, where the callus is thickest, and you feel your body compressing against the hard, dead skin, flattening into the cracks and crevices. The grime here is embedded, and as she scrubs, you feel it loosening, mixing with water, becoming a slurry that coats you.

She drags you up the length of her sole, over the arch, across the ball of her foot. Each area has its own texture, its own concentration of sweat and dirt. When she reaches her toes, she wedges you between them, scrubbing the webbed spaces where sweat and toe jam have accumulated. Your elastic body is forced into these tight spaces, compressed between her toes, and the smell here is overwhelming—concentrated, fermented, a thick funk that seems to have its own physical weight.

"Gross," your mother mutters, examining her foot. "Really need to wash these better."

She switches feet, propping up the other one, and repeats the entire process. This foot is somehow worse—the calluses rougher, the grime more embedded, the smell even more pungent. She scrubs you mercilessly against her sole, grinding you into every wrinkle, every crack, working you between each toe with methodical thoroughness.

Your body has become a repository for her filth. You can feel it coating you, saturating you, becoming part of you. The sweat, the grime, the dead skin cells—all of it is being ground into your elastic flesh, and there's nothing you can do but endure it.

Finally, she straightens up, and you think maybe, mercifully, she's done.

But then she looks down at you—at what she thinks is a loofah—and frowns.

"You know what, I should really get my back," she says. She adjusts her grip on you, and you feel her fingers finding purchase on what she doesn't realize are your feet, bound in your own stretched tongue. She holds you in front of her, examining you. "This thing is longer than I remember. Perfect."

She reaches down with her other hand and grabs the opposite end of you—your head, though she has no idea—and pulls.

Your body stretches. The sensation is indescribable—your elastic form elongating like a rubber band, your bound shape extending longer, longer, becoming a rope of flesh. She pulls you taut between her hands, testing the tension, and you feel every inch of your body stretching, thinning, your consciousness spreading along the length of your extended form.

"Huh. Weird," she says, but she doesn't question it further.

Then she brings your head-end down and back, reaching between her legs from the front. You catch a glimpse—a horrifying, too-close view—of the dark patch between her thighs, the string of her tampon, the residue she never wiped away, and then you're being pulled backward, threaded between her legs like a rope.

The contact is immediate and overwhelming. Your stretched face presses against her, against the hot, slick skin of her inner thighs, and then—oh god—against her most intimate areas. You feel everything: the coarse hair, the heat, the moisture that's not just water from the shower, the sticky residue of uncleaned waste, the blood-tinged discharge of her period.

She pulls you further back, threading you between her buttocks, and you feel the cleft of her ass closing around your stretched form. The skin here is hot and damp, and you can feel—you can FEEL—the residue from her earlier explosive bathroom visit, the filth she didn't wipe away, now smearing directly against your face, your stretched tongue, coating you in a layer of fecal matter and sweat.

Then she pulls upward.

Your stretched body is yanked up between her legs, pulled tight like a thong, wedging deep into her crack. She's given herself a wedgie with you, using your elastic form as a scrubbing rope, and she starts moving—shifting her hips, pulling you tighter, working you back and forth.

"Oh yeah, that's the spot," she says, completely oblivious to your suffering. "Gotta get in there good."

She pulls you tighter, and your stretched body wedges deeper, your face grinding against her anus, your tongue-wrapped form pressed into every fold and crevice. The smell is beyond description—a concentrated assault of sweat, feces, menstrual blood, and the particular musk of her most private areas. It fills your consciousness, drowning out everything else.

And then you feel it: a rumbling from deep inside her.

"Oh no," your mother mutters. "Not again."