Emily carefully monitors your digestion that night. If she wants for your remains to turn in to the type of bowel movement that she needs (namely, an extremely loose one), she needs to make sure that everything goes just right. She keeps a careful watch on the softness of her stomach bulge and counts your pulse every fifteen minutes. It was racing when you first went in, but as you became more docile it dropped. It would continue to drop until ultimately it gave up and, briefly, your body became a part of hers.

When it comes time to prepare for her date the next morning she has a wide grin on her face. She’s wanted this moment for so long and now she’s certain that it has come about just perfectly. She rechecks the bulge that used to be you. It’s larger than she had planned, but that’s no matter. You’re nice, soft and liquidy, just like she needs you to be. She waddles down the stairs and sets up a tray with the things she’ll need: a plate for scones, two tall glasses and an extra large glass pitcher full of ice. She takes the pitcher from the plate and sets it on her kitchen floor, along with a second empty plate. Slowly and seductively, almost as though she were stripping for somebody, she lowers her flannel sleeping pants, hocks up her over-sized t-shirt and squats her bare ass above the plate first.

The small log of shit emerges smoothly and effortlessly, a wave of steam rising from it. It’s a deep brown in color and plants itself squarely in the center of the plate. Emily turns around and admires how perfect the first step has gone. She lifts the warm dump up to her nose and takes a big old sniff.

“You are going to make deeeeeelicious chocolate chips.” She informs you. “But anyone can make chocolate.” She says as places the plate on the counter. She’ll break you into chips and cook you in to the scones later. Now it’s time to put the rest of you to use.

“THIS” she says as she returns to the floor and pops a squat over the pitcher “is going to be MESSY.” She plants her ass in the mouth of the pitcher and contorts her face as she begins the push.

“Messy”, it turns out, is an understatement, as Emily grunts and evacuates her bowels of your remains in to the ice-filled pitcher. The fluid diarrhea splashes all over the inside of the pitcher, squirting out of her anus in a series of major wet farts. You splatter and slosh around, clanging the ice cubes against the glass sides of the pitcher. She continues to contort and grunt, shitting her brains and your remains out in to the pitcher until she has filled it to the brim with your foul residue. The result is an uncanny facsimile for iced tea… except that the whole pitcher still reeks like her shit. She takes one look at her handywork and coos.

“Sweetheart,” she says, “you look delicious!” She places the iced tea on the tray, prepares the scones in the oven, and retreats upstairs to shower and change in to an eye catching floral sundress.