You ever hear of a "Jiggler"

"Wait, Anne, please! He’s had enough!" Madison’s voice was a broken whisper, her strength completely spent. She tried to shift in the chair, but her muscles felt like water, drained by the violent upheaval of the 'Mystery Shake.' She was a shell of herself, trembling and pale, yet her only concern was the tiny, shivering figure in Anne’s palm.

Anne didn't even look at her mother. Her eyes were fixed on a piece of equipment she had dragged into the room under a canvas sheet—a relic from a 1990s fitness craze. It was a Power Plate-style vibrating platform, a heavy, humming slab of steel designed to shake fat off the body. With a clinical efficiency, Anne didn't just place the machine; she maneuvered Madison’s weakened frame over it, securing her mother’s hips with a heavy-duty nylon strap that locked her firmly in place. The strap was positioned with sadistic precision, cinched tight exactly beneaththe curve of Madison's posterior.

"You’re so focused on him, Mom," Anne murmured, her finger hovering over the dial. "But the experiment requires a catalyst."

With a sharp flick of her wrist, Anne cranked the machine to maximum. The device didn't just vibrate; it screamed. The high-frequency oscillation slammed into Madison’s lower back and glutes, creating a blurring, violent shudder that rattled the very floorboards of the dining room. The effect was immediate. The vibration acted like a whisk in a bowl of batter, churning the remaining toxins of the Mystery Shake within Madison's bowels. Within seconds, the physical exertion of the shaking caused Madison to break into a profuse, glistening sweat, her skin becoming slick and hot.

You were still fused to her, a tiny, horrified witness to the chaos. As the machine reached its peak resonance, the vibrations ceased to be mere shaking and became a crushing force. The agitation of the "Mystery Shake" reached a breaking point; the gas was no longer enough to satisfy the pressure. The violent oscillation of the platform acted as a pump, forcing the contents of Madison’s gut downward with an unstoppable, mechanical rhythm.

Then, the seal broke. Not with a roar of gas, but with a hot, torrential flood. Because you were glued directly to the epicenter of the eruption, there was no escaping the deluge. A thick, searing wave of liquid waste slammed directly into your open mouth and nostrils. The force was hydraulic, a pressurized stream of chemical waste that felt like boiling lava. The healing factor, usually your savior, now became your curse; as the caustic waste scorched your throat and lungs, your tissues knit themselves back together in real-time, ensuring that you felt everysingle second of the suffocation and the burn.

Madison’s cries of "Please, stop!" were drowned out by the humming of the machine and the splashing of the debris. She was shaking violently, her body a shaking edifice of distress, while you were submerged in a tide of her making. You were no longer just a prisoner; you were a filter, a tiny human sponge absorbing the most undignified output of the "Mystery Shake." Anne stood over the both of you, her expression one of pure, academic curiosity, watching as the vibrating machine continued to pump the liquid waste directly into your reconstructed lungs.

"Look at that," Anne remarked, leaning in to observe the mess. "The healing factor is actually keeping him alive despite the amount of toxins he's inhaling. Fascinating."

Madison’s voice was a broken whimper, her strength completely evaporated. "Anne... please... he's just a boy... let him out... let him go..." She tried to shift her weight, to move away from the source of the trauma, but the nylon straps held her fast against the vibrating steel. Every shudder of the machine only served to squeeze more of the liquid waste from her bowels, a relentless, mechanical pumping that ensured you were never for a second without the suffocating heat of the discharge.

You tried to struggle, to push away from the skin, but the superglue held you in a death-grip. You were drowning in an ocean of waste, the scent an overwhelming, sulfurous wall that blocked out the world. Each time you managed to gasp for air, the vibration of the machine triggered another explosive release, slamming a fresh wave of filth into your face. You were experiencing the true meaning of helplessness—a living, breathing plug for a disaster that wouldn't end.

Anne finally reached for the dial, not to turn the machine off, but to increase the frequency. "I wonder," she mused, the light of the room reflecting in her cold eyes, "how much of this the healing factor can actually handle before the mind simply breaks." She turned the dial to the maximum setting. The machine began to scream, a high-pitched mechanical wail that synchronized with the next, even more violent eruption of Madison's gut. You felt your world dissolve into a blurring, vibrating roar of heat and filth, the cycle of destruction and rebirth repeating with a terrifying, rhythmic precision.

After what felt like an eternity of vibrating chaos, the machine’s hum finally tapered off into a low, ominous thrum. But the respite was a lie. Annedidn’t step away; instead, she reached for a second device, a relic of ninetys fitness obsession that looked like a chrome-plated altar to torture. It was a high-intensity oscillating platform, designed to shake the fat off a body through sheer kinetic violence. With a cold, clinical efficiency, Anne maneuvered Madison’s trembling, depleted frame onto the slab. Madison was a ghost of herself, her muscles turned to water by the systemic collapse of the "Mystery Shake." She couldn't fight; she could only weep, her voice a fragile thread as she begged for your release.

"Please, Anne... he's suffering... just let him out," Madison whimpered, her head lolling to the side.

Anne didn’t answer her mother. She didn’t even look at her. Instead, she reached into her kit and produced a polished, industrial-grade siliconeplug, its surface glistening with a cold, clinical sheen. Without a word of explanation or a hint of hesitation, Anne positioned herself behind Madison. With a sudden, authoritative shove, she drove the plug deep into the canal, a violent intrusion that displaced everything in its path.

For you, the experience was a tectonic shift. As the plug forced its way in, it didn't just push you aside; it collided with your miniature frame with the force of a falling skyscraper. The superglue, still bonding your skin to Madison’s, didn't let go. Instead, the sheer mechanical pressure of the plug sliding past you acted like a conveyor belt. You were caught in the crossfire of the intrusion, your body being violently displaced and folded. In a horrifying blur of physics, you felt your anatomy warp, your limbs pinned against the wall of the canal as the plug surged forward, effectively turning your tiny, fragile body inside out againstthe slick, pulsing walls of her interior.

The sensation was a white-hot explosion of agony. Your organs were compressed, your spine arched at an impossible angle, and for a moment, you were nothing more than a crushed layer of biological matter trapped between the silicone and the mucosa. Then, the healing factor screamed into action. You could feel your bones snapping back into place and your skin knitting together in a frantic, wet blur of regeneration, only to be crushed again as the plug seated itself with a definitive, air-tight thud. You were now a living gasket, sealed into the darkest, most pressurized corner of your stepmother’s anatomy.

"Perfect fit," Anne whispered.

Without a second of hesitation, she reached for the dial of the oscillating platform. She didn't justturn it on; she slammed the setting to the absolute maximum. The machine didn't hum this time—it shrieked. The vibration was no longer a shake; it was a high-frequency assault that turned the entire chair into a blur of motion. Because you were wedged between the rigid plug and the vibrating walls of the canal, you became the primary shock absorber for the kinetic energy. Every millisecond, a thousand micro-impacts hammered your body, shaking your very atoms.

The "Mystery Shake" hadn't finished its work. The violent oscillation acted like a centrifuge, churning the remaining liquid waste in Madison's gut and forcing it downward with relentless pressure. You were the only thing standing between the buildup and the exit. The pressure built up behind you like a dam about to burst, a hot, churning tide of sulfurous liquid that hammered against your back. Then, the pressure overcame the seal. A jet of caustic, boiling waste blasted through the gaps of the plug, hitting you with the force of a fire hose. You were drowned in a torrent of filth, the high-frequency vibrations turning the liquid into a foaming, abrasive slurry that scrubbed your skin raw.

Madison’s scream was a distorted, vibrating wail that echoed through her bones and into your ears. She was shaking so violently that her vision must have been a blur, but for you, the world was simply a roar of noise and a flood of heat. You felt your lungs collapse under the weight of the liquid, only to be instantly repaired by the healing factor, forcing you to inhale the very filth that was drowning you. It was a cycle of absolute devastation: crushed, drowned, healed, and repeated. Anne leaned in, her face a mask of curiosity as she watched the machine shake her mother’s frame. "I wonder," she mused, her voice barely audible over the mechanical scream, "how long it takes for the 'Deadpool' effect to wear off. Or if it just makes the pain feel more vivid." She reached out and playfully tapped the vibrating metal of the platform, sending a new wave of tremors directly through your shattered, reforming body.

The vibration shifted from a shudder to a violent, rhythmic thumping. The plug acted as a piston, and you were the gasket. With every oscillation, you were smashed against the walls of the canal, your body being flattened and then snapped back into shape. The friction generated a searing heat, turning the liquid waste around you into a steaming, pungent soup. You were no longer a person; you were a piece of organic padding, a living buffer between a mechanical device and a desperate, shaking woman.

As the machine reached its peak resonance, the resonance began to harmonize with Madison's own rhythmic sobbing. The vibration became a vibration of the soul, a vibrational torture that left no part of your miniature frame untouched. You felt the superglue finally start to fail, not because the solvent had worked, but because the sheer kinetic energy of the vibration was ripping you away from the skin. You were now floating, momentarily, in a slurry of waste and vibration, before the next wave of the "Mystery Shake" slammed you back into the void. Anne’s laughter was the only sound that pierced the roar, a cold, high-pitched contrast to the chaotic, humid nightmare of your existence.

Suddenly, the vibration stopped. The silence was more terrifying than the noise, a vacuum of sound that signaled a shift in the torture. You felt the sudden, sharp vacuum as the plug was violently yanked out, only to be replaced instantly by something larger, heavier, and colder. Anne had swapped the silicone for an industrial-grade glass plug, weighted at the base and polished to a mirror sheen. As it slammed home, it didn't just displace you; it acted like a hydraulic press, flattening your two-inch frame against the mucosal lining and literally turning your internal organs outside-in. You were a crushed, distorted smear of flesh, held in place by the sheer pressure of the glass.

"Now," Anne whispered, her finger hovering over the dial, "let's see what 'Maximum' actually means."

She didn't just turn the dial; she snapped it. The machine didn't just start—it erupted. The high-frequency oscillation returned with a vengeance, the glass plug vibrating at a speed that turned it into a blur. To you, it felt like being caught in a paint shaker filled with diamonds. Your body was being pulverized and rebuilt a thousand times a second. The healing factor was screaming, working at a pace it was never designed for, knitting your cells back together even as they were being shaken into liquid. You were trapped in a cycle of total physical collapse and instantaneous resurrection, a tiny, screaming point of consciousness in a world of vibrating glass and sulfurous heat.

The "Mystery Shake" had one final, violent act. The vibrations acted as a catalyst, triggering a massive, systemic evacuation of the remaining slurry. Because the plug was now a rigid, vibrating wall, the liquid waste didn't just flow—it pressurized. You were the only gap in the seal. A jet of boiling, caustic waste blasted through the microscopic space between the glass and the skin, hitting you with the force of a power-washer. The heat scorched your newly healed skin, and the chemical potency of the shake burned through your lungs, but the healing factor refused to let you black out. You felt every single drop of the filth as it saturated your body, a humid, suffocating tide that kept you pinned in a state of perpetual drowning.

Madison’s reaction was visceral. She wasn't screaming anymore; she was making a low, guttural sound of pure exhaustion, her body jerking in a rhythmic, violent dance dictated by the machine. Every shudder of the platform sent a new wave of pressure through her gut, pumping more of the slurry directly onto your hypersensitive skin. The friction of the glass plug vibrating against your reconstructed flesh generated a searing heat, turning the waste around you into a steaming, pungent soup.

Anne stood back, watching the scene with a look of genuine scientific curiosity. She noted the way your tiny body been absorbed into the mess, the way the healing factor was creating a strange, pulsating glow in your flesh as it fought to keep you alive. "Interesting," she murmured, "the pain is actually accelerating the regeneration. The more it hurts, the faster he heals." With a smile, she reached for the dial again, deciding exactly how much more "interest" the experiment could handle.

The healing factor was no longer just repairing; it was panicking. Under the relentless barrage of high-frequency vibrations and caustic slurry, the regenerative process hit a critical saturation point. Your cells weren't just knitting back together; they were overproducing, duplicating and fusing in a desperate, distorted attempt to shield your core from the trauma. You felt a sickening, wet elasticity take over your frame. Your bones didn't just snap back—they softened and flowed, stretching into unnatural, rubbery shapes that clung to the vibrating glass plug.

This wasn't healing; it was a mutation. Your skin thickened into a translucent, gelatinous membrane that absorbed the impact of the vibrations, turning your body into a living shock absorber. You felt your internal organs shift and merge, becoming a singular, pulsing mass of hypersensitive tissue that could no longer distinguish between the pressure of the plug and the heat of the waste. You had become a biological anomaly, a distorted smudge of humanity designed by agony to survive the unsurvivable.

Anne leaned in, her eyes wide with a mixture of horror and fascination. She reached out, poking the now-rubbery protrusion of your shoulder with a manicured nail. "Oh, wow," she breathed. "He's not just healing anymore. He's adapting. You've actually turned into a little piece of living gum, Austin."

The realization that you were now a mutated, gelatinous mass didn't bring relief, only a heightened sense of vulnerability. Because your skin had become this permeable, semi-liquid barrier, the "Mystery Shake" didn't just burn your surface—it began to soak into your very essence. You felt the chemicals migrating through your softened tissues, integrating with your mutated cells. Every oscillation of the machine now felt like it was shaking your very soul, the vibrations traveling through your rubbery body with a resonance that made your vision flicker like a dying lightbulb.

Madison, barely conscious and shaking with the mechanical rhythm, let out a soft, broken moan. The sound vibrated through her flesh and into your mutated frame, sounding like a distant mountain collapsing. She was too far gone to realize that her body had become the anvil upon which you were being forged into something non-human.

"I wonder if this is reversible," Anne mused, her voice drifting in and out as the machine continued its relentless assault. "Or maybe this is just who you are now. A little, squishy, permanent "I wonder if this is reversible," Anne mused, her voice drifting in and out as the machine continued its relentless assault. "Or maybe this is just who you are now. A little, squishy, permanent reminder of why you shouldn't prank your sister."

With a sudden, violent motion, Anne reached down and gripped the glass plug. Instead of removing it gently, she gave it a sharp, twisting rotation. Because your body had become so elastic and fused to the glass, the twist didn't just move you—it wrung you. You felt your mutated organs spiral, your spine twisting like a piece of taffy. The pain was transcendental, a screaming, white-hot agony that spanned the entire spectrum of human suffering, yet your mutated cells simply absorbed the trauma, stretching and stretching without breaking.

As the twist completed, Anne stopped the machine. The sudden silence was deafening. You were a coiled spring of mutated flesh and agony, your body spiraling around the glass cylinder. With a playful, decisive yank, Anne ripped the plug from its seat.

The result was not a leak, but a catastrophic breach. Hours of pressurized "Mystery Shake" and volatile gases, held back by the glass seal, erupted in a single, violent torrent. Because you were fused to the plug, you were dragged out with it, becoming the nozzle for a flood of caustic waste.

In your previous, human state, the sheer volume of the eruption would have shredded your organs or popped your lungs like overfilled balloons. But the mutation had rewritten your physics. As the deluge hammered into you, you didn't break; youyielded. Your body became a vast, rubbery expanse, stretching and warping to accommodate the sudden, violent influx of pressure. You felt your tissues tear and instantly reform, growing larger and more distorted by the second. It wasn't a growth of health, but a growth of agony—a sensation of being ripped apart from the inside while simultaneously being fused together. You expanded rapidly, your gelatinous form bloating like a rapidly inflating weather balloon of filth and mutated flesh, until you had swelled to the size of a massive bean bag chair, a quivering, iridescent mound of suffering on the dining room floor.

Madison, whose body had been held taut by the same pressure, experienced a sudden, jarring release. The collapse of her internal tension was so absolute that her remaining strength vanished in a heartbeat. With a soft, defeated groan, she slid from the chair, her limp form collapsing directly onto the center of your bloated, rubbery mass.

The impact was a crushing blow. Madison’s full weight descended upon you, her unconscious body draping across your face like a heavy, suffocating blanket. You were pinned beneath her, your mutated skin molding to the contours of her body, sealing you in a vacuum of heat and the lingering, pungent scent of the shake. You couldn't scream; you could only vibrate with a silent, systemic shock, your face buried deep in the humid crease of her weight. side, watching as the impact of her finger sent a ripple of agony through your hypersensitive, rubbery frame.

Anne didn't move to help. Instead, she leaned over the edge of the human-sized bean bag that you had become, her eyes dancing with a mixture of horror and absolute delight. She reached out, poking the translucent, shimmering skin of your