(three inch tall main character, NOT INVINCIBLE, fatal fart torture, INTENSE STUFF DO NOT READ IF YOU DON'T LIKE THE MC DYING)
The roar of the water park is a distant, muffled thunder as Chloe’s finger gently presses you into the hard, metal lining of the locker. “Just for a sec, okay?” she chirps, her voice a melodic boom from your three-inch perspective. “I gotta get out of these wet clothes. I’ll be so fast.”
The metal door clicks shut, plunging you into a dim, claustrophobic box that smells of damp concrete and old flip-flops. A sliver of light cuts through the ventilation holes in the door, and it’s through this narrow window that your world suddenly, overwhelmingly, becomes Chloe.
She’s turned her back to the locker, humming a pop song off-key. Her hands go to the tie of her bikini bottoms. With a deft flick, the knot comes undone. The fabric, stretched taut across an expanse of flesh you once thought was merely impressive, now reveals its true, staggering scale. As she peels the wet material down, the two hemispheres of her ass emerge, each one a monumental, jiggling globe that eclipses your entire view. They are pale and immense, swaying with a hypnotic undulation as she steps out of the suit. The sound is a soft, wet shhhlick of fabric on skin that resonates deep in your chest.
Oh my god. The thought is a desperate, tiny plea in your mind. You are a spectator to a private, utterly oblivious performance. Every shift of her weight sends a seismic tremor through the bench she’s standing on, a quake that translates directly into a breathtaking jiggle of those incredible cheeks. You can’t look away. The sheer mass of it is humbling, terrifying, and undeniably hypnotic.
Then, it happens.
She bends at the waist, presumably to pick up her dry shorts from the bench. It’s a movement you’ve seen a thousand times at full-size, but from here, it’s apocalyptic. The colossal orbs rise, tightening, before descending back towards the locker. She must have misjudged her balance. A high-pitched, surprised “Whoa!” escapes her lips, a sound that is immediately cut off as she stumbles backward.
Time seems to warp. The world outside your little window vanishes, replaced by an expanding wall of pale, yielding flesh. There’s a soft, tremendous thump that shakes your entire universe, followed by a profound, absolute silence. The light from the ventilation holes is snuffed out, plunging you into a warm, oppressive darkness. You are entombed.
The pressure is immediate and total. The soft, pillowy warmth of her cheeks has sealed the locker’s opening with a perfect, airtight fit. You can feel the faint, rapid beat of her heart transmitted through the flesh, a frantic thump-thump-thump that vibrates through your entire body.
“Oh, no. No, no, no,” her muffled voice filters through the barrier, thick with panic and embarrassment. It sounds like she’s speaking from the other end of a long, fleshy tunnel. “I am so sorry! Are you okay in there? I… I’m stuck!”
You can feel her struggle. The immense pressure increases as she tries to push herself forward, the muscles in her cheeks clenching rhythmically against the metal frame. The sensation is dizzying—a powerful, kneading constriction that leaves you breathless. Each attempt is a fruitless effort; she’s wedged in perfectly. The locker, designed for towels and shoes, has become a prison for a goddess’s most magnificent asset.
“I can’t… I can’t get any leverage,” she groans, the sound a deep rumble around you. The warmth is intensifying, becoming a humid, intimate heat that clings to your skin. “This is so embarrassing. I’m really, really sorry.”
A new tension enters her voice, a different kind of strain. “Oh, geez. Oh no,” she whispers, more to herself than to you. “Not now. Please not now.”
You hear her take a sharp, held breath. The flesh around you tenses, going rigid for a long, strained moment. The struggle is silent but palpable, a battle you are now a captive audience to. You can practically hear her internal plea, her desperate attempt to clamp down, to hold it back.
She fails.
It begins not with a sound, but with a deep, internal gurgle that vibrates through the very core of the flesh pressed against you. Then, the air in the locker changes. A low, prolonged brrrrrrump echoes around the tiny space, a deep bass note that seems to last for an eternity. It’s not loud, but it is immense, a pressurized expulsion that makes the walls of your prison seem to flex inward for a second.
The smell hits you a moment later.
It’s a thick, putrid wave of warmth that carries the distinct, acrid tang of chlorine from the park’s lazy river, mixed with something uniquely, intimately her. It’s the ghost of the cheap hot dog she ate for lunch, the sugary soda, a deeply personal and undeniably potent musk. Your eyes water instantly. You gasp in shock, and the act pulls the contaminated air deep into your lungs.
“I’m so sorry!” Chloe wails, her voice choked with humiliation. “I tried to hold it! I have a really nervous stomach! I’m so, so embarrassed!”
But her body is not done betraying her. The first blast was merely a warning. Another cramp seizes her, and this one is sharper, more insistent. There’s a higher-pitched, wetter sputter, a quick series of pfft-pfft-pffts that spray directly against the locker door. The new wave of air is hotter, even more potent, and it has nowhere to go. The locker, sealed airtight by her magnificent cheeks, has become a gas chamber.
You cough, the air feeling thick and oily in your throat. A lightheaded dizziness begins to swim through your skull. The initial bizarre thrill of your vantage point has evaporated, replaced by a cloying, suffocating reality. The rhythmic, anxious clenching of her muscles continues, each subtle squeeze pumping more of her tense, gassy essence into the cramped space.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” she moans, and you can hear the tears of frustration in her voice. “Please don’t hate me. I’m trying to think of a way to get out…”
Another deep, internal rumble answers her, promising another imminent, humiliating release. Your head spins, the lack of clean oxygen and the overwhelming scent making the warm, dark world tilt and sway. You bring your hands up to your face, a pathetic attempt to filter the air, but it’s useless. The atmosphere is her. It’s all you can taste, all you can smell.
You feel yourself slumping against the soft velvet, your strength ebbing away with each poisoned breath. The frantic, apologetic sound of her voice is starting to fade, becoming a distant echo.
“Oh, jeez, here comes another one… I’m so, so—”
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