Con-cerned Slob Support


Written by Septia.


Aaah, Con-go: the convention where everyone went. It had been a pleasant morning to wake up for. Striding through the gates to the open premises, booths and stands and floors of venues. Seemed everyone had something they wanted to say. Obioma and Eltin dressed up in back stitching black and white – though Obi's black shirt was cleaved open by an avalanche of her tummy. Bri and Miranda were in each other's arms in matching spectacles. Bri's chest posing a similar issue to Obi's shirt. 
	Sam had his share of places he wanted to visit, too. But, what meant the event more, the way she'd squeezed his hand when they entered the venue, smitten with her joyous eager, a feeling he would never forget. This marked his and Sabra's first, official date. 
	These were the feeling he held onto, whilst his flattened form crept closer to Sabra's bare cocoa breast skin. 
	“Just get him in there good, home girl.” 
	“’Precciate it if you pick up the pace. We've got stands to stand at.” 
	Sam shot Eltin and Bri a glare. Of course, as soon as Sabra's cosplay had torn they had the 'brilliant' idea of mending it with him, their ever elastic and good sported mate. With Obi and Miranda backing them up, assured he wouldn't mind. He'd been caught in a snag surrounded by valleys of blubber, with only one way out… Bri and Eltin both had their sly side, but in close enough proximity the gals's smug aura's sparked, practically radioactive. 
	“Hold up,” the saccharine voice came as Sabra held up her arms. 
	Sam feelt the body heat of her chest wafting over him in the sudden jostle of her arms. He peered up at her. She gazed back for a mere moment, then diverted, cheeks blossomed in fluster and silver locks under the yellowed fabric jiggling as she faced the group, the metal spring Antennae on her head bobbing jovially to contrast her expression. 
	“This seems, real weird, alright? I mean, we could always ponder out some other way to fix it, a-and even then it is just a little,” -Srrtch- A rip of fabric interrupted her, leaving her arm suspended in the air as a chill visibly went thrashing through her spine, “s-scratch…” 
	It was not. The fabric had straight up rend along the midsection of the chest, from the right zenith of their boob well past the keel. His girlfriend's chest was so full it had burst through their limits. A thought tickled Sam's primal urges despite the predicament. 
	“It's okay,” he said. Sam's words garnered Sabra's gaze again; eyes glossy with hope. The only way out for him, laid obstructed by her… He had seen her pupils shrink when the suit tore. The sheer dismay watching the light of her eyes drain, as the perfect day was crumbling before her. “I know how much your… Saga Sallywate costume means, I'll be fine.” Sam was so relieved he recalled the minor character's name just in time. 
	“You… mean it?” Sabra asked. 
	“He sure does, Calypso~,” Miranda said and stepped forwards, with Sam in hand paying him against Sabra's breast. Sam's body met with the plush, ever so slightly moist surface with the crinkle of caramelised onions –Ghhrllcth- -Chhhlllrcht- Plastering to hover over her skin and bra like a human-goop band-aide. With Miranda's fingers plying and brushing him into place, watching the outlines of he scar. 
	“Ghhng…” Sabra winced, her face contorting in the sudden sensation of malleable skin encapsulating her own. 
	In a way it was, great to hear her having such a, strong reaction to him. And, he was doing her proud… right? 
	Miranda leaned in as she slid her fingers down his frame to ensure he'd cover every stretch of the rift. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “It's alright, guess you haven't told her how much you like this yet, dun worry, I won't tell, but I'll do this,” she said, then increasing her voice to an exaggerated, “ooowhoooops~.” she shifting forwards so her hand – cloaked in Sam – squeezed up into Sabra's chest, his body -Chhrlrlspsths- smushing and bending into her boob ballast. -Clllrrssjt- the moist grind of skin to skin warping through Sam's body. 
	“You can thank me later,” Miranda whispered. 
	The reason he hadn't told Sabra, of course, because he didn't particularly enjoy being smothered in sweaty meat and second -hand molesting his girlfriend, but with this mouth smothered into Sabra's boob, he was in a tight spot to bring up complaints. 
	Sabra let out a rustling groan that clattered her teeth as she attempted to reel it in, “Ouch.” 
	“Sorry, hun, gotta work on my balance,” Miranda said and stepped back. Slapping Bri's hand as the slimmer girl prodded up with thread and needle. 
	“Just a quick patch-job. Hold still, Obi, some coverage?” 
	“Mm hmm,” the bigger girl said and stepped in the way of prying eyes, their corners shielded by a wall of feminine blubber as Bri sewed Sam into the costume with wide hems. 
	“I'll…” Sabra mumbled, “I'll get you cleaned up every couple hours, promise.” 
	“Killjoy~,” Bri teased as she finished.
	Sam successfully patching up the taut fabric covering Sabra's bust. Once again, reduced to a useful implement for the girls, inherently more distant to them, as he settled in as a piece of cosplay for the day. 
	His frame compressed and eased up against the straddled boob, with the faint stippling of humidity daubed onto him -Sllsrt- -Crrlsth- It was a smooth rhythm that insinuated Sabra's roaming. It was, tepid. Crisp even, yeah, the scent of his girlfriend's fatty sweat was that of… olive oil. Which… is a good, smell… Sam carefully laid out to himself as the perspiration built. He assured himself, even as his body smothered in the inclining musk. 


It was perhaps for the better, they'd have to separate eventually, or be forced to tag along if they were to see what each other wanted at that Con-go, this way, he got to spend it all with her… in, a certain sense at least. Sabra sauntering through the Convention grew hesitant… The other girls taking off for their interests one by one, until she was alone amid the crowd, spying for the opening vendor hall. 
	“Hey, you.” 
	“Waugh,” Sabra yelped, with her arms raised to her chest, squeezing back her breasts -Chrrsrlsla- flesh contorting, curling his frame to her. 
	“Thought I recognized you,” said a boy in a blue suit. “If it isn't the notorious Saga Sallyvate of the Incident: CS.” 
	“Eh, yeah, and: hang on, you’re Admiral Aaron.” 
	“Correct,” he said putting on a voice, “And were you in my jurisdiction, you'd sorely get away with all thine, cheesy schemes.” 
	Sabra's eyes glimmered and struck Saga Sallyvate's pose, holding her chin, folding her arms over her cleavage. “Beet’ll sure do~.”
	Sam's frame distorted around her elbow, cramming into the chest, though after it loosened, his body wouldn't comply. It took aching moments of the breast to fill back out, sloughing forwards in an avalanche of slick meat. Gradually conforming as he felt Sabra walk along and chat with the superfan from another show. Her breasts, gradually, steamrolling into him to the tune of molten gravel -Frrhshslclst-. Further, posing and gestures didn't help the situation. 
	“Ah, it appears I will be heading this way.” 
	Sabra smiled. “Then, I better,” she said and posed, jiggling the antenna of the beetle Saga Sallyvate costume, “Cheese it~,” she said and playfully took off. 
	Sam did not need the image of cheese in his head right now. He was already baking in the confines of all the more dampening bra-fabric and musk trickling over her skin. Locked in this sheet of flesh – isolated – confined where the sheer salty musk beading under his skin reeked like a ripened gorgonzola… W-which… was a, very, fancy cheese. Cultivated, even. One which deserved respect just like his girlfriend di-… -Schhrrllchp- Another pose pancaked Sam into the saline odour, a ghast of musk hooking through his olfactory senses spread across the putty body, the ham in this polluted grease sandwich he was desperate to convince himself was tolerable, because… they were barely an hour into the con. During the walk Sam could feel the tremors of her legs below him, a quake so potent it translated all the away up her body. For while Sabra had an impressive bust, she had thighs like Obi had a stomach, sporting hips blossoming from her frame like someone had strapped saddle backpacks on each end of her butt. Most to which now was contained in the hard yellow polymer latex of her costume. 


~ 1 ~


“Phaa...” Sabra huffed as she entered the bathroom, “Oh skies, I'm baking alive in this thing,” she said and started to unbuckle some of her suit. Her thighs audibly expanding to fill out her frame as she did. “So worth it though,” she mused as she saw it the reflection of the suit in the mirror. She watched a strap of cloth torn off her bust, and fiddled with it between exasperated sighs to swab some of the sweat drooping down her frame. 
	Sabra sighed in a serenade of relief that resonated with the squeal of trudging through a mire of muck from her armpit.
	The Sam-rag was stuffed into the crevices of her armpit, a deep sea biome salty of brim and rich in baking humidity, -Crrrrlssppgghtwp- and Sam was scrubbing through all of it. His body inflated by the sheer amount of liquid stench his body absorbed, each bit riling through his membrane and weaving the marinading malodour into his senses. An odious sensation that racked down the mangled flapjack he had left of a spine. After hours on the convention floor, Sabra's sweat somehow being the olive oil of body odour ha drained form him – in its place was the far more tactile sensation of coagulating oils soaking through him. Sam was rubbed down her side. In the crevices of her mammoth muffin top, -Chrlpst- scraping up clumps of dirt and grime collected in the recesses from the constrained suit. Then dipping down her bellybutton -watching himself sliding across her gut with a sheen of redolent must in his wake, slipping over the brim to the belly button abyss -Krrlcht-. Dunked into the flume ride reservoir of clotted sweat binding and drooling over his form, he felt it roll off of his matted, sweat saturated skin… there just wasn't more he could do than marinate it, before he was the marinade… She withdrew him, fist clamped into the folded bundle of her boyfriend. He was a handful of putrid curs, engorged by fermented whey. Brine was wrung out of him over a sink, drooling down his frame as the nectar of a corpse flower, but even as it spilled from him, the imprint of the caustic, virulent brine laid imprinted on his very sinew. 
	Sabra sighed, drawing a deep breath through her teeth in sheer relief, she drew Sam back, towards her hindquarters… hesitated, and… 
	Sam felt the cool wash of water drench him. And lissome fingers scrubbing into his dough. The water soothing the odour, diluting it, if not repelling it. 
	“You are such a hero, Sam. Just tell me if it’s too much.” 
	“I'm… fin.” he managed to relay. What was he to say, he was a hero. 
	“You done with that?” Eltin suddenly asked from behind, plucking Sam up and smacking the length of him down her crack with a sweaty -Slclppttwwlp- echoing between the jiggling cheeks. “Cus' I've got a baaad case of swamp ass and this is just what I…” -Clfphhts- A squeal of sog ground between her buns before she hoisted it out like a lure from a bog, “required, thanks, gal.” she said and raising her jeans, dropping a bundle of Sam back in Sabra's grasp. She was stunned, but, set to rinse him off, again. A touch less thorough this time around. 


~ 2 ~


The wet crunches of salsa, mince meat and crunchy corn milling under molars echoed around the table. Populated by the sisterhood of gals, minus one Sam. Each vacuuming their jumbo taco-meal at various levels of slobbing. 
	“Mfmmfs,” Sabra hummed out as she stuffed a stacked nacho down into her gob, a satisfying rolling crumble and crackle roiling through her maw as she savoured the salty spices. “You know, nachos are the best out and go meal,” she said aloud, and while Bri vouched for burritos, a clump of minced meat, sauce and dressing, glued with cheese and crumbs of corn, dangled down her lips, and smattered into her cleave, seeping right into the folds of her bust where the distinctly paler Sam was moulded in. -Sfhrplghsa- A jostle of her chest sent the glob moseying down to -Clspghsa- glue and mangle into Sam's face, a pulp of browned beef and dairy with a distinct overture of drying saliva draining into his frame. The meat juices drawing paths over the boobage where Sabra's building sweat could wash down. Ensuring even the food pulp was tainted by his girlfriend's grime. 
	“So,” Bri interjected, “I saw the Glut Goons by one of the stands earlier.” 
	The table tremored as Obioma slammed her palms down, rising up so the table tilted to her seat. A single word on her lips. “Where?” 
	Silence hung for a moment. Bri's shock warped into the smug smirk of a fisher who'd laid out the last bait of the day, and hauled in the big one. 
	It took a few moments for the realization to dawn on Obi, who awkwardly sat back down. 
	“Didn't know your girlfriend was such a fan of boy bands,” she whistled at Eltin. 
	“Pssh, you hag.” 
	“Bitch.” 
	“Whore,” they 'playfully' retorted, in a bout of verbal ping pong.
	Sabra patted Obi who was buying her face in nachos. “I like them a lot, T-B's my fave~.” This made Obi smile behind the corn chips and cheese. 
	-Bhuraahalp- Sabra belched so her lips rattled. “O-oh, excuse me,” she said, and fumbled at her cleavage, tugging up Sam and wiping her lips. 
	Sam's frame smothered against the lingering odour of the meaty belch, saliva and crumbs embedding into his frame, gumming under the adhesion of coagulated body brine. So far, just her lower lip, but she drew him upwards, smearing the grime onto him like a one-use napkin. This was… almost … a… 
	“Ooo, look who's getting their first kiss in front of everyone. Hey get a room if you're gonna make out, lovebirds.” Eltin called out. The girls all convening on Sabra, who just then snapped back into reality of what she was doing and let go of the Sam-sheet. Flustered even more at the thought of this being their first… 
	“H-hey, g-gals t-that was an accident. I didn't, Oh Sam…” She lamented. 
	“Sure it was~” said Obi with a wink. 
	“Man, this bitch's a riot,” Bri added. 
	“You'll get used to it, eventually.” Miranda added. 
	Sabra peeked down at the rubbery stretch of malleable, peachy skin, and tucked him all back in the safety beneath her boobs. Hesitating for a moment, her hand over him, brushing. They'd patched the suit now, why was he still there? They'd said to keep him there as an emergency and… she'd just, gone along with it? 
	A trumpet blared out in the halls. Playing a jaunt tune. 
	Sabra gasped so loud she almost fell out of her chair. “Is that the Incident: CS theme song?” She blared out and vacated her seat to join the caravan of fellow cosplayers. Leaving the thought of Sam muddled up and soaking into the waterfall of a sweat in her cleavage as a vacant memory at the table, as the swinging boobage bunched and kneaded him back flat under her suit. 


~ 3 ~


A rumble quaked the pudge hull around Sam. Walls plying into his body to wring out a bile of sweat, tomato nectar, and pickled spices, congealed in his malleable form -Twwmngngrllllsshct- -Sqqhllssh- only to be replaced by more musk and collected grime trickle down from the cleft in Sabra's cleavage above. When the bulwark of boobage sandwiched him, Sam 's senses were drowned in the deluge of mexican spices, polluted by feminine brine. A faint undertone of hazel the only thing grounding him in the reality that this was the bod of his girlfriend – a horror he clung onto for relief. 
	-Bhhoouurrahlp- “Excuse me."
	“Oh, don't worry,” Miranda called from the toilet booth next to hers, “cannot be a proper lady without a spot of grime.” 
	“Hhh, ye-yeah. Hynnnmg…,” Sabra huffed, winging and wiggling on the seat that her hips devoured. An unladylike barrage of butt breath heralded yesterday's mexican binge, and the onslaught in its wake that caused an uproar against her gut -Ffppprrrrrbbrrprpthsbbst- -Bhgrrssllllpghlkrrrslcht-. The disturbed waters splattered as the mudslide evacuated Sabra's bowels. 
	Throughout the onslaught, Sam – stashed 'safely' in Sabra's bosom – felt the tremors of her dump drum up her spine, pelting him between her boxing glove boobs. Crumbs of nacos and sundered peppercorn trickled down the crevice and incorporating into his frame by the pounding cleavage. Marring the little clean breath he could scavenge. 
	“Phew, that one was a real doozey.” Sabra's fingers met with the toilet paper. And then heard the clattering of an empty roll, holding up the lone square; mocking her. “Auhm… Miranda? Could you toss me over some tp? It's empty.” 
	Flushing echoed as Miranda's door opened, standing outside the stall. “Oh slag, that's a bit of a snag. Ooh but hey, you've got Sam squished in with you still?” 
	“Right…?” 
	“Then you got all the paper you need~” 
	A fluster consumed Sabra's face. Her breasts jostling in disapproval. “T-that e-euh tat… really doesn't sound necessary…” 
	Miranda chuckled, “Hey Calypso, you know those ‘lil soft tortilla triangles?” 
	“Ooo, the ones you clutter in filling completely?” 
	With the vinaigrette of dense, tart air baking into his from, he felt like a tortilla; a wet tortilla tossed in a dusty corner behind the fridge. 
	“How could I not? They've sponsored some of the bes-.” 
	“Well, home at Bri and I¨s place,” Miranda politely interrupted her Sabra before she'd trail off, “W have come to call them 'Squishes', or… 'Sam-os'~” 
	This painted a visage of a pale, smooth wrapper overloaded in brown mince in Sabra's mind. “O-oh… Because?” 
	“Because, Sam's ever so…” She said and punctuated her statement with a puff of gas, “… helpful.” 
	“Ooh… But, are you sur-.” The door to the bathrooms shut. Sabra wiggled her fingers down her cleavage, grasping and tugging at the pudding of Sam mangled within. She pulled. -Schhrrlrlstah- The membrane of boob grease squealed around him as she pulled out his form, bulldozed by the pressure of her breasts, so she reeled up a long, flattened sheet of Sam extruding through her bosom. She swallowed, looking over him. Did he really like it? He was the perfect shape… But could she… Sabra realised the time. Panels were starting up soon. This looming emergency made her bury her qualms quite quickly, resigning in apologizing to Sam later. 
	Sam cursed Miranda with the sparse breath he had, worse that she surely thought she was doing him a favour. His flattened form guided downward, looking at the mountains of Sabra's exposed thighs parting in a ravine, barrelling him through tethers of sweat dew clinging between the hip hills, and into the darkness of the bowl…Sam was subsumed by a wall of stench. An acrid miasma of beer battered, burning meat rising from the sacrificial pyre below, and oozing from the mortar plant looming above… In the sparse light that breached the bowl, he saw only the glistening highlights of a mudscape covering the cleft. Given no time to acclimate to the increasing potency before he grew horrifically intimate. -Chhrrllpghshtha- The crinkling of the mortar dunes before him muddled his vision, dampened his hearing to the shuffle of displacing loam, leaving his touch and smell enhanced… -Crhhrflpflsha- it crept over him in hills of sludge, smearing onto his pliant skin and melding out in a deluge of boiled putty, watching and smothering over the flattened sheet of his frame as Sabra drew him up her crack. His senses dimmed by a fog of pungency so thick the clouds clogged his pores, redolent of the cadaver of a discount chilli feast distilled into a raw, intoxicating alcohol of malodours. 
	This was beyond his mettle. Everywhere the fresh filth warming him, peppered him in this olfactory perversion. 
	“Oooh, mmnf,” Sabra huffed above, “A-ah I don't wanna alarms you, but th-this feels… Ooo~. L-like I'm wiping my ass with a pancake,” the tremors of satisfaction rummaged through her thighs, shaking and scrubbing Sam into the steam clay. “S… so p-plush… s-so decadent,” she heaved out a moan with her tongue drooling out her maw, leaning forwards to bury her arm in her tummy as he wound towards her brim. 
	Sam felt the terrain buckle and protrude underneath him as he reached the pucker, and crashed into the cluster of filth with the smooth hand of Sabra smothering him into the mire. -Cghhrrlpsghahsa- Clay breaking apart under the stress of humidity weighing and gumming onto him in clots of viscous slag. Globules of muck clobbering into his form and spreading with a sickly crackle. The thick clumps of manure still sturdy enough that Sam could feel the imprint of the rubber bark texture grind into his skin, imprinting a chiselled labyrinth of fissures across his frame, soaked with reservoirs of colon oils. -Crhrhslgsh- Muck daubed into his frame from the protruding bud of flesh above. Whilst he was corralled and trawled through the butt sludge, her brim winked over him, puckered to plaster against clean patches of his stretched toilet roll self, branding him with sizzling marks of bog marinade. 
	Sabra's fingers dug into him, scraping him against skid marks and mortar mixed with the seaweed brine of her own cultivated swamp ass, moulding him into dimples around her fingers that brushed and scooped up flakes of dried filth, moistened by sweat and musk to bind into his body, coated in a reeking cement. The lips protruded once again, showering him in twitching smoocher, splaying its grime along him, whilst Sabra dug her fingers back to wedge him into the orifice and clean out every nook and cranny of the rugulose folds. Roasting in the brewing fumes of her butt. All as she quivered, delighting in the soft relief he provided… Sam's muck addled mind and exhaust drenched thoughts could only imagine how this… this glorified exhaust port, was providing him the first real kiss of his girlfriend… The first, real satisfaction he could provide her, was as a crumpling up patch of reusable toilet paper, winding up and down along the canyon of her ass, slathered in bog dregs in a perverted flume ride. 
	“Phaa… ooh I really needed that,” Sabra said, and sealed Sam. 
	His thoughts froze, as he loomed above the pit, felt the seascape below him, the gruel radiant a miasma of petrichor methane. 
	She caught him. “Ooh slag, oh, Sam, sorry I'm... Phew, ok. We are ok, you are ok, right? Y-yeah y-you look fine aha…” she said, a touch rosy as she stood, raising her costume. “Yeah, t-thank you, very much, I really can't miss this panel.” She peered to the sinks. “I' promise to rinse you off later.”
	-Clfprsthapta- the smear of the bowel glue sandwiching in between sheets of his body dug through his senses, folded and packed up to a layered lasagne moulding grime. Stashed in the back of her costume to fester as Sabra skipped off. When would this convention end…? 


~ 4 ~


-Scqllsth- Sam grunted, pinching the flat end of his right head. -Slptha- and with a pop and stretch of pulling wax from a bottleneck, his left ear was drawn back into shape. He sighed, slumping back on the hotel bed. He peeked at the clock, just past midnight. He stared at the roof: ruminating. Despite the past two days, despite the hours it took to reform and cleanse himself… he wished Sabra had a great time during the convention's after party. It gave him a moment to relax. To… detox, frankly. Clean air was almost alien. Though, some stench of old leather and hazel still lingered… He knew he needed to talk with Sabra. Hand grasp his palm molds. With the experience of Yanamai he knew he could get through. As long as he was open, and clear with her about boundaries. 
	Five knocks came at the door, the sixth saw Sabra barging into the hall, the beetle sculpted latex of her costume wobbly and sagging on her frame from loosened straps. Fumbling with a can of beer in each grip, lavished with vibrant cartoon characters. “B-bhey -hic- beee…” she called out, tum staggering into the main room. 
	Sam stood, “Sabra? It, looks like you had fun, let loose?” 
	“Sshoo loose. Imm I'mma let yhou,” -Bhaaaaururllp- her belch reeked of malt and syrup. “sowwy.” she mumbled in a tiny tone. 
	Sam sighed. “Sabra, I know you're tired, but it's important that-.” 
	“I whaant yvou.” 
	“Huh?” 
	Sabra grasped his arm, tight enough so his malleable form plied under her fine digits, locking them together. “My ahss has been craving you anthill 'aaay.” 
	For once, instead of decompressing, Sam felt part of himself, swelled. 
	“Hem.” 
	Sabra rolled forwards, bulldozing him onto the covers. Sam’s hips smush like an eclair under Sabra's wide hipped girth. The whole of her form looming above him and smothering to his frame. He could see her ass peeking up behind her. And… she was pushing up right over his crotch… 
	“Please?” 
	A lot ran through Sam's mind. Was it right to resist, get her some water and rest? But even if it went against her wishes? How drunk was she really? But then… a thought took hold. 'I've earned this'. Egotistical? Sure, but with all he's, literally, been through, he deserved a night with a girl he loved. What felt like minutes of deliberation came out as an instantaneous answer. “Hell yes, anything for you, babe.” 
	A big grin splayed over her face. “Ahha, yeesh~” she squealed. 
	Sam reached down to his pants-. 
	-Chrhlrpsthsa- as she reached in for a kiss, the squelch echoed in his head, as her palms compacted his cranium, moulding him under the weight of her palms, sculpting his face back over the top of his torso. 
	“Hw-hwiatn ghwia-,” frail pleads muted under her lips, sucking on his head as she rolled over his body, cramming it together. 
	“Aawh, Bri's told me all about this, I don't wanna mm make you ave to work for it after being so good to me at the con-go,” she huffed out as she moulded him down like clay, keeping his face upwards as she compressed and mangled the elastic form, bunching him down to the size and dimensions of a soda can. “We can just -hic- relax together, shh… shhr…” she said munching his finger over his lips, sealing them shut with body heat, musk and fruity beer residue, “I'll take it from here.” she ensured, pinching the bottom part of him. The girl snuggling back into bed, scaling off her cosplay, with just the antennas bobbing along form her head, when Sam emerged in his new, rotund shape. 


It wasn't the first time he'd been a butt plug. He stared down the canyon of thigh blubber surging over him. Leading up to her exposed brim, winking at him. 
	“Hope you can, mm, compress a bit more. B-but not t-too much, ok sweetie?” 
	She called him sweetie… right as the tip of him reached the pucker. -Crlpsrthhsa- again, kissed by an oily ass, parting its wrinkled flesh over his form, digging into the Sam clay and drawing contours of their ridges into him, laden with bowel fluids. 
	A growl sparked at her gut. “Aamfn, Ooo yes, s-sorry Sa, I k-know you like mm it a bit… steamy.” Sam felt the rumble roar down her intestine. The resulting fog blasting him back, airborn humidity sogging the atmosphere with toasted whey and briney, musky, sardines. The force of the gas bending his surface, sculpting waves and valleys that shrunk into dunes as they trailed down his form, and settled as wrinkles bunching up against his girlfriend's grip of him. 
	“Ooh myes that was s-such a rank one.” her pucker quaked at the next torrent of flatulence, brim clapping into his form and flattening the fart wrinkles as the steam tore into his frame. 
	“Ooh and I f-felt that one,” Sabra cooed, splaying her thighs to get at him, drawing his back and forth through to thrust into her cavern, “that means there's plenty of room for you~.” through pushing through the convulsions of flesh around him, rammed into Sabra's depths. 
	The walls within clung to him, only to draw back in a tease, undulating back to coat him in malformed slag of mulch too loose to vacate the rectum -Sghhrrllfpsha-, plastering Sam in droves, scrubbing into his dampened frame as he was jam in, and revolved against the walls. His skin soaking in the crude bowel oils, each breath he took festering with malodour of a botched bean stew brewed in ammonia. Another gale wind descended, encroaching under the weight of bubbling moisture from the depths of her guts, glossing him in a polished sheen of condensed swamp smog as it curved and bended his body, roasting him in malodours emissions. 
	The clenching pop of the pucker clasping around him slimmed and echoed through his senses – the cork sealed in the bottle, doomed to ferment with the evening) wine. 
	“That's it, that just mmf. Sam you are j-just the right size. Oh slag, that rocks. G-get in a bit deeper, almost, come on just, nestle‘n there for me, sweetie.” 
	There it was again. Perhaps. Just… perhaps. If he shut his senses, ignored the tethers of muck drawing between him and the intestines as they chomped down onto him, the stench of decay soaking fermentation into his skin, and the glistening humidity pooling… He could imagine himself, just that: the cork of a bottle, and throughout his time here, it would… ferment, yes, but refine, into something delicate, dew only his girlfriend could muster. 
	The gut drummed. -Frrrrpppwwrrrrbbrrpth- miasma barrelled throughout the brim, stray clouds licking him with raw putrefaction, staining him down to his core. Sam felt his body begin to melt. The wet slaps of the bowels munching and masticating him with the drooling balm of grime and chewing him soft and baking in bile inks, feeling him swell with the liquid, expanding to crowd up against her bowel walls, moulding into the squirming clefts of her colon… This was no wine. He lacked the imagination – or endurance – to delude himself with that… this was his girlfriend's butthole, and judging by the roaring moans and laboured huffs, he wasn't getting out of here anytime soon. 
	“Y-yes mfsm yes we will. We will go all night, baby…” Sabra moaned, arm moulding over he plush gut as she stirred her honeypot. Her pucker flexing over the pale surface of the Sam-plug’s suction-cup, contrasting her milk chocolate buns. The flesh ring budding and melting Sam to a wax seal. Gradually, her epic thighs lumbered together. And with an ominous thud of a grand mausoleum gate, sealed Sam's escape shut. Thighs slammed shut, as did his escape. 
	The drunken girl would simmer in her buzz, whilst her newly acquired butt-friend marinated in her ass. Her senses through the hungover might return come midday, though by then, her giga-behind would be firmly planted on the bus seat home.