The Next Day

Your left alone stuck to aunties ass for the rest of the evening, and your sisters curse caused you to lick her ass clean every time it got soiled.

The next morning your sister Anne says she has a surprise for you. Wirhout a word she drops you in her thong, lets a huge fart out, then got in her car.

The engine of the SUV hummed a low, vibrating frequency that mirrored the tremor in my synthetic soul. I was currently a sodden, stretched-out thong, clinging to Anne’s skin with a desperate, airtight grip. The fart she had delivered upon donning me still lingered in the fibers—a hot, concentrated seed of mischief. As she pulled into the gravel lot of the university's most notorious frat house, the bass from the party began to thrum through the chassis, sending ripples of nausea through my saturated form.

Anne didn't just walk into the party; she marched. I felt the rhythmic, powerful sway of her hips, the friction of her skin against my fabric generating a humid heat that made the lingering residue of her morning "surprise" simmer. The house was a sea of women—hundreds of them, dressed in gym wear and sequins, the air thick with perfume and the electric energy of a Friday night. Anne didn't head for the drinks or the dance floor; she headed straight for the makeshift stage, a plywood platform stacked with amplifiers.

With a sudden, violent hoist, she yanked me upward, stretching my elastic body until I felt my consciousness thinning into a translucent sheet. She stepped onto the stage, the spotlight hitting her with a blinding glare. "Attention everyone!" she screamed over the roar of the music, her voice amplified by the crowd's sudden curiosity. "I found a little pervert lurking in our bathroom this morning. Since he liked watching so much, I decided to give him a perspective he’d never forget."

The crowd cheered, though they didn't know the half of it. Anne reached down and gripped me, pulling my head-end taut. With a cruel, efficient motion, she slid a heavy, metallic ring—a thick, industrial-grade washer—across my lips, forcing them wide open in a permanent, breathless gasp. Then, she shifted her weight. In one singular, catastrophic heave of her abdominal muscles, she unleashed a massive, pressurized torrent of waste directly into my open maw. I felt my form expand rapidly, the synthetic fibers stretching to their absolute breaking point as I bloated from a garment into a sphere. By the time she stopped, I was a heavy, spherical mass of filth, roughly the size of a basketball, clinging precariously to her frame.

"Behold!" Anne laughed, patting the taut, vibrating surface of my bloated body. "The indestructible Austin! He can take it all, but can he take a hit?" She stepped down from the stage, heading toward the massive punch bowl filled with a neon-green concoction. With a mischievous glint in her eye, she tipped a bottle of high-potency liquid laxative into the punch, stirring it in with a slow, deliberate motion.

"Listen up!" she yelled to the sea of women. "Whoever can 'pop' Austin gets a hundred bucks!"