“—sorry!”
Her voice is a distant, muffled thrum against the roaring in your ears. The sound is secondary now. The smell is everything. It’s a thick, warm cloud of her, a potent mixture of the greasy park food and something uniquely, intimately Chloe that fills your lungs with every ragged, involuntary gasp you take.
Your head swims, a dizzying carnival ride pitched in absolute darkness. You try to focus on the sound of her voice, a lifeline to the world outside this humid, fragrant prison.
“I don’t… I don’t feel so good,” you manage to croak out, the words tasting of her. Your voice is so small, so pathetic. You are so small. The sheer, monstrous scale of your predicament crashes down on you again. You are a speck, getting drunk on the exhaust of a goddess. The humiliation is a hot flush that somehow cuts through the debilitating lightheadedness. This is how I go out. Not with a bang, but with a sputter. Hot-boxed by my best friend’s indigestion.
“Oh, no, no, no,” she whimpers, her colossal buttocks clenching instinctively with her worry, pressing even more firmly into the locker’s opening and squeezing another faint, almost polite pffft of air into your space. It’s not the thunderous release from before, but a slow, torturous leak. “Your voice sounds so weak! I’m killing you, aren’t I? I’m literally farting you to death.”
A low, ominous gurgle echoes from the depths of her stomach, a promise of more to come. She lets out a groan that is pure misery. “My stomach is doing somersaults. I knew I shouldn’t have had that third chili cheese dog.” She shifts her weight, a seismic event that grinds the soft, expansive flesh of her cheeks against the metal frame. The entire locker shudders.
Then, a strange, strained laugh bubbles out of her. It’s a sound tinged with hysteria. “God, can you even imagine? If anyone found out? The great Chloe, suffocating her tiny best friend with her own… her own…” She can’t even say it. The laugh dies, replaced by a contemplative, terrifying silence. You can almost hear the gears turning in her pretty, clueless head.
Her voice drops, becoming quieter, more thoughtful, as if she’s working through a difficult math problem. “You know… you’re, like, really tiny.” The statement hangs in the tainted air, simple and devastating. “And I… I have my whole life ahead of me. My reputation. My dates. Can you imagine trying to explain this on a date? ‘Oh, hey, sorry I’m a little gassy, but I accidentally asphyxiated my boyfriend once with my gas, so this isn't too bad!’”
Another nervous giggle escapes her. “I mean, not that you’re my boyfriend! Obviously. But, like… the principle is the same.” She sighs, a sound of genuine, profound conflict. “It’s so, so awful to even think it… but wouldn’t it just be… easier… if you… didn’t make it out of there?”
The words land like a physical blow. The air, already toxic, now feels venomous. Easier for who? You want to scream, but you can only manage a wheeze.
Instantly, she gasps, horrified at her own callousness. “Ohmygod! I didn’t mean that! I’m so sorry! That was a terrible, horrible, awful thing to say! I’m just panicking! And lightheaded! I think I’m getting lightheaded from breathing my own… you know… backdraft.”
But the seed is planted. The shocking cruelty of the joke, the chilling sliver of truth within it, coils around your heart. She’s right. You are an insignificant, three-inch secret. One that, if erased, would save her a lifetime of embarrassment. The thought is more suffocating than any foul air.
“I’m a monster for even thinking it,” she murmurs, her voice thick with real shame. “You’re my friend. My little buddy. I’m supposed to protect you.” She gives another experimental wiggle, a Herculean effort that makes the metal groan in protest. Her immense posterior doesn’t budge an inch. “I’m stuck. I’m really, really stuck.”
A fresh wave of nausea hits you, a combination of the depleted oxygen and the profound, soul-crushing belittlement of your situation. You are completely at the mercy of her body, her whims, her digestive system. Your fate hinges on the shifting pressures inside her intestines. You are less than a person in this moment; you are a consequence.
“I promise I’ll get us out of this,” she says, her voice firming up with a resolve that sounds painfully fragile. “I just… I just need a minute. I need to let this… this cramping… pass.”
You hear her take a deep, shuddering breath outside. You instinctively hold your own, a futile gesture. The atmosphere within your box is still and heavy, a stew of her previous expulsions. It’s getting harder to think, to form a coherent thought that isn’t about the warm, suffocating darkness.
“Okay,” she whispers, more to herself than to you. “New plan. I’m going to try and push myself forward. Really lean into it. It might… it might be a little loud. Just… just close your eyes, okay?”
A deep, internal tremor, far more violent than any before, rolls through her body. You feel it transmit through the locker door, a coming earthquake. She lets out a sharp, pained grunt of effort.
And then the world ends.
It’s not just a sound. It’s a physical force. A long, thunderous, wet-sounding BRRRAAAAAAAP that vibrates through the very bench you’re clinging to. The locker door itself seems to bow inward for a fraction of a second under the sheer pressure of the blast. A hot, impossibly dense wave of air hits you, so potent it feels like a damp towel has been slapped over your entire body.
It steals what little breath you had left. Your vision, though there's nothing to see, sparks with white and black dots. The sheer power of it, the absolute lack of control, the humiliating force of nature contained within her—it’s terrifying and mesmerizingly awe-inspiring.
The sound seems to go on forever, finally subsiding into a series of smaller, shuddering aftershocks.
For a long moment, there is only silence and the ringing in your ears. The air is now utterly, indescribably foul.
“Oh, wow,” Chloe breathes, her voice dazed and breathless. “That one… that one really hurt.” A beat of silence. Then, a note of panicked hope enters her tone. “Wait. Wait, I think… I think it worked. I think I moved a little bit!”
You can feel a slight change in pressure, a minute shifting of the immense weight sealing you in.
“Okay,” she says, her voice gaining strength. “Okay, I think I’ve got it. I just need to do that one more time. You ready?”
Your stomach drops. One more time? You can’t survive one more time. You open your mouth to beg her to stop, to think of another way, but you are too weak to make a noise.
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