This won't end well

The rumbling intensifies, and you feel her body tensing around you. Your stretched form is wedged so tightly between her cheeks that you can feel the vibrations building, the pressure increasing.

Then she farts.

The gas explodes around you, hot and wet and absolutely rancid. It's not a quick release—it's a long, bubbling eruption that seems to go on forever, the gas forcing its way past your stretched body, coating you in its humid, fetid warmth. The smell is apocalyptic, a concentrated version of what you endured when she was on the toilet, and it's happening directly against your face.

"Jesus," your mother says, laughing slightly. "Those protein shakes are killing me."

She shifts her hips, adjusting the wedgie, pulling you even tighter. Another rumble. Another release of gas, this one wetter, more forceful. You feel droplets of something—you don't want to know what—spattering against your stretched form.

She continues scrubbing, working you back and forth between her cheeks, occasionally pulling you tighter or adjusting the angle. Each movement grinds more filth into you, spreads the residue across more of your stretched body. The gas keeps coming in intermittent bursts, each one coating you in fresh waves of humid stench.

"Okay, that's probably good enough," she finally says, though she doesn't sound entirely convinced.

But she doesn't let go. Instead, she adjusts her grip, holding you taut between her hands, and starts working you in a sawing motion, really grinding you into her crack, scrubbing with the kind of vigor that suggests she's trying to make up for the lack of soap with sheer mechanical force.

Your elastic body stretches and compresses with each saw, thinning when pulled tight, thickening when she eases the tension. You're being used as a grotesque floss, threaded between her buttocks, and there's nothing you can do but endure it, your consciousness trapped in your indestructible, elastic form, forced to experience every horrifying second.

Another fart, longer this time, vibrating against your stretched face. Your mother sighs with relief.

"Much better," she says.

Finally—mercifully—she releases the tension. Your elastic body snaps back toward its bundled shape, though not completely. You're left partially stretched, coated in a film of filth and shower water, your consciousness reeling from the ordeal. She tosses you carelessly onto the shower floor, where you land with a wet slap against the tile.

"God, I need to buy more soap," your mother mutters, turning off the water. "That was disgusting."

You lie there, a twisted, stretched bundle of pink flesh, as she steps out of the shower. Through your disoriented senses, you hear her toweling off, the rustle of fabric as she wraps herself, the bathroom door opening and closing. Her footsteps fade down the hallway.

Silence.

You try to move, to unwrap yourself, but your tongue is still wound too tightly around your body, and your elastic form hasn't fully recovered from being stretched so severely. You're stuck, lying in a puddle of shower runoff, coated in the residue of your mother's grotesque cleaning session.