You are smeared thinly across the wooden bench, your tiny body spread out like a faint stain from the overwhelming pressure of Emma's mother's enormous ass. Your white wedding dress, once pristine and regal, now looks like a stretched, crumpled piece of silk glued against the grain of the wood. Your arms and legs are flattened out at awkward angles, and your face is barely discernible, a faint impression on the polished surface.
You can barely think, the world reduced to muffled sounds to your smushed ears and the soft, scratchy texture of the bench under your pressed body. Moments pass—how many, you're not sure. the lingering body heat on your compressed form left you feeling gross and sticky. The church around you is alive with distant noise: laughter, music, the rustling of dresses. Life goes on, oblivious to the tiny bride pinned so ignobly to a seat meant for honored guests.
Slowly, painstakingly, you begin to reform. It starts with a faint twitch in your fingers, a slow ripple spreading across your smeared arm. Your body fights to pull itself back together, to gather its mass and restore your shape. It’s agonizingly slow, each second feeling like an eternity as you will your form to regain dimension like a ballon slowly filling with air.
Your tiny hand begins to lift from the bench, peeling away with a soft, sticky sound. Your arm follows in slow motion, trembling with the effort. Your head rises next, your features stretching back into place, your hair sticking in unruly strands before settling back into some semblance of normal. Your torso and chest are still flattened but you can feel them slowly beginning to return to normal.
Nearby, you hear Ashlie giggle quietly. Through the haze of your struggle, you glance toward her. You catch her smirking, her sharp green eyes gleaming with amusement as she pretends to adjust her hair. Whether she had orchestrated the situation or simply found it hilarious, it was clear she enjoyed every second of your humiliation as you amused eye are fixed on you.
You grit your teeth and focus harder, willing your legs and rest of your body to reform, still trembling and unstable. You remain half-stuck to the bench, your body not yet fully free, but you’re no longer just a sticker.
Today was still supposed to be your day, your wedding, and here you were—fighting tooth and nail just to exist while guests obliviously prepared to watch your marriage.
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