This choice: Scuttle backwards, hoping to hide in the small nook behind the bench. • Go Back...Chapter #7Pulped by: boons   The acrid smell of fear surges through your nostrils, an adrenaline shot urging your legs into a frenzied scramble. Veering backward, you aim for the minuscule gap between the bench's backrest and the cold, unyielding mall wall. It's a narrow sanctuary, but desperation sings a siren song of false security.
You're barely inside when darkness overtakes you, the massive form of the woman descending rapidly. The monstrous swell of her rear engulfs the world around you, and the grotesque, bumpy topography of her skin stretches above you. The worn, aging fabric of her dress does little to shield you from the true nature of what you've found yourself beneath.
The world compresses in a symphony of torture. A bone-snapping crunch cuts through the dull roar of her weight settling. A white-hot jolt of pain courses up your legs, both unmistakably shattered beneath her. Your body contorts in reflexive agony, your mouth gaping for a scream that the oppressive weight stifles into a desperate whimper.
The fabric of her dress, coarse from frequent washes, pressed uncomfortably against your face, each thread feeling like a rough rope. Every ridge, every dimple of her weathered skin made its presence known, compressing you further into your minuscule haven.
Each breath becomes an oppressive chore, your lungs wheezing for air that the jiggly mass above denies. The air is thick, rank with the smell of sweat, body odor, and a stale fragrance that speaks of a long day's exertions. Humidity clings to every pore; each breath you manage tastes metallic and earthy, a haunting reminder of the microscopic layer of grime that gathers on well-worn clothing. You can taste every bitter trace of life's struggles, every bout of fevered exertion, every tired sigh she's ever expelled.
The pressure continues to mount. It feels as though her body is trying to meld you into the very architecture of the mall. But instead of merging with the tiles, you’re crushed into the minuscule crevices of her aging skin. The rough texture of her rear feels like an insurmountable mountain range, valleys deepened by cellulite, peaks defined by stretched skin.
Time dilates. Each second feels tortuously drawn out, an eternity of claustrophobic darkness and suffocating pressure. The weight above doesn't relent; there’s no respite, no quarter given by the indifferent expanse of the woman's body.
It's as if you're being absorbed, your very existence questioned by the relentless crush above. Yet, while your legs no longer respond, your mind remains maddeningly aware, a prisoner in your own pulped body. | Members who added to this interactive story also contributed to these: |
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